f  LIBRARY 

I      UNIVERSITY  OF 

O!  -F-   -N:* 
\      SWA  CRUZ 


PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 


PARNASSUS 
ON  WHEELS 

By 

Christopher  Morley 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

Publishers 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE 
&  COMPANY.  ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  AT  THE 
COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


PS 

5525 

Oil 


To 

H.  B.  F.  and  H.  F.  M. 
"Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true' 


A  LETTER  TO 

David  Grayson,  Esq. 

OF  HEMPFIELD,  U.  S.  A. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Although  my  name  appears  on  the  title  page, 
the  real  author  of  this  book  is  Miss  Helen 
McGill  (now  Mrs.  Roger  Mifflin),  who  told  me 
the  story  with  her  own  inimitable  vivacity. 
And  on  her  behalf  I  want  to  send  to  you  these 
few  words  of  acknowledgment. 

Mrs.  Mifflin,  I  need  hardly  say,  is  unskilled 
in  the  arts  of  authorship:  this  is  her  first  book, 
ajid  I  doubt  whether  she  will  ever  write  another. 
She  hardly  realized,  I  think,  how  much  her 
story  owes  to  your  own  delightful  writings. 
There  used  to  be  a  well-thumbed  copy  of  "Ad- 
ventures in  Contentment"  on  her  table  at 
the  Sabine  Farm,  and  I  have  seen  her  pick  it 
up,  after  a  long  day  in  the  kitchen,  read  it  with 
chuckles,  and  say  that  the  story  of  you  and 
Harriet  reminded  her  of  herself  and  Andrew. 
She  used  to  mutter  something  about  "Adven- 


tares  in  Discontentment"  and  ask  why  Har- 
riet's side  of  the  matter  was  never  told?  And 
so  when  her  own  adventure  came  to  pass,  and 
she  was  urged  to  put  it  on  paper,  I  think  she 
unconsciously  adopted  something  of  the  manner 
and  matter  that  you  have  made  properly  yours. 

Surely,  sir,  you  will  not  disown  so  innocent 
a  tribute!  At  any  rate,  Miss  Harriet  Grayson, 
whose  excellent  qualities  we  have  all  so  long 
admired,  will  find  in  Mrs.  Mifflin  a  kindred  spirit. 

Mrs.  Mifflin  would  have  said  this  for  herself, 
with  her  characteristic  definiteness  of  speech, 
had  she  not  been  out  of  touch  with  her  publish- 
ers and  foolscap  paper.  She  and  the  Professor 
are  on  their  Parnassus,  somewhere  on  the  high 
roads,  happily  engrossed  in  the  most  godly 
diversion  known  to  man — selling  books.  And 
I  venture  to  think  that  there  are  no  volumes 
they  take  more  pleasure  in  recommending  than 
the  wholesome  and  invigorating  books  which 
bear  your  name. 

Believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Grayson,  with  warm 
regards, 

Faithfully  yours, 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY. 


PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 


CHAPTER    ONE 

I  WONDER  if  there  isn't  a  lot  of  bunkum 
in  higher  education?  I  never  found  that 
people  who  were  learned  in  logarithms 
and  other  kinds  of  poetry  were  any  quicker 
in  washing  dishes  or  darning  socks.  I've 
done  a  good  deal  of  reading  when  I  could, 
and  I  don't  want  to  "admit  impediments" 
to  the  love  of  books,  but  I've  also  seen  lots  of 
good,  practical  folk  spoiled  by  too  much  fine 
print.  Reading  sonnets  always  gives  me  hic- 
cups, too. 

I  never  expected  to  be  an  author!  But  I 
do  think  there  are  some  amusing  things  about 
the  story  of  Andrew  and  myself  and  how  books 
broke  up  our  placid  life.  When  John  Guten- 
berg, whose  real  name  (so  the  Professor  says) 
was  John  Gooseflesh,  borrowed  that  money  to 
set  up  his  printing  press  he  launched  a  lot  of 
troubles  on  the  world. 


4         PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Andrew  and  I  were  wonderfully  happy  on  the 
farm  until  he  became  an  author.  If  I  could 
have  foreseen  all  the  bother  his  writings  were  to 
cause  us,  I  would  certainly  have  burnt  the  first 
manuscript  in  the  kitchen  stove. 

Andrew  McGill,  the  author  of  those  books 
every  one  reads,  is  my  brother.  In  other  words, 
I  am  his  sister,  ten  years  younger.  Years  ago 
Andrew  was  a  business  man,  but  his  health 
failed  and,  like  so  many  people  in  the  story 
books,  he  fled  to  the  country,  or,  as  he  called  it, 
to  the  bosom  of  Nature.  He  and  I  were  the 
only  ones  left  in  an  unsuccessful  family.  I  was 
slowly  perishing  as  a  conscientious  governess 
in  the  brownstone  region  of  New  York.  He 
rescued  me  from  that  and  we  bought  a  farm 
with  our  combined  savings.  We  became  real 
farmers,  up  with  the  sun  and  to  bed  with  the 
same.  Andrew  wore  overalls  and  a  soft  shirt 
and  grew  brown  and  tough.  My  hands  got  red 
and  blue  with  soapsuds  and  frost;  I  never  saw 
a  Redfern  advertisement  from  one  year's  end 
to  another,  and  my  kitchen  was  a  battlefield 
where  I  set  my  teeth  and  learned  to  love  hard 
work.  Our  literature  was  government  agricul* 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS         5 

ture  reports,  patent  medicine  almanacs,  seeds- 
men's booklets,  and  Sears  Roebuck  icatalogues. 
We  subscribed  to  Farm  and  Fireside  and  read 
the  serials  aloud.  Every  now  and  then,  for 
real  excitement,  we  read  something  stirring  in 
the  Old  Testament — that  cheery  book  Jeremiah, 
for  instance,  of  which  Andrew  was  very  fond. 
The  farm  did  actually  prosper,  after  a  while; 
and  Andrew  used  to  hang  over  the  pasture  bars 
at  sunset,  and  tell,  from  the  way  his  pipe  burned, 
just  what  the  weather  would  be  the  next 
day. 

As  I  have  said,  we  were  tremendously  happy 
until  Andrew  got  the  fatal  idea  of  telling  the 
world  how  happy  we  were.  I  am  sorry  to  have 
to  admit  he  had  always  been  rather  a  bookish 
man.  In  his  college  days  he  had  edited  the 
students'  magazine,  and  sometimes  he  would  get 
discontented  with  the  Farm  and  Fireside  serials 
and  pull  down  his  bound  volumes  of  the  college 
paper.  He  would  read  me  some  of  his  youthful 
poems  and  stories  and  mutter  vaguely  about 
writing  something  himself  some  day.  I  was 
more  concerned  with  sitting  hens  than  with 
sonnets  and  I'm  bound  to  say  I  never  took  these 


6        PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

threats  very  seriously.  I  should  have  been  more 
severe. 

Then  great-uncle  Philip  died,  and  his  car- 
load of  books  came  to  us.  He  had  been  a  col- 
lege professor,  and  years  ago  when  Andrew  was 
a  boy  Uncle  Philip  had  been  very  fond  of  him — 
had,  in  fact,  put  him  through  college.  We 
were  the  only  near  relatives,  and  all  those  books 
turned  up  one  fine  day.  That  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end,  if  I  had  only  known  it.  Andrew 
had  the  time  of  his  life  building  shelves  all  round 
our  living-room;  not  content  with  that  he  turned 
the  old  hen  house  into  a  study  for  himself, 
put  in  a  stove,  and  used  to  sit  up  there  evenings 
after  I  had  gone  to  bed.  The  first  thing  I  knew 
he  called  the  place  Sabine  Farm  (although  it 
had  been  known  for  years  as  Bog  Hollow)  be- 
cause he  thought  it  a  literary  thing  to  do.  He 
used  to  take  a  book  along  with  him  when  he 
drove  over  to  Redfield  for  supplies;  sometimes 
the  wagon  would  be  two  hours  late  coming 
home,  with  old  Ben  loafing  along  between  the 
shafts  and  Andrew  lost  in  his  book. 

I  didn't  think  much  of  all  this,  but  I'm  an 
easy-going  woman  and  as  long  as  Andrew  kept 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS        7 

the  farm  going  I  had  plenty  to  do  on  my  own 
hook.  Hot  bread  and  coffee,  eggs  and  pre- 
serves for  breakfast;  soup  and  hot  meat,  vege- 
tables, dumplings,  gravy,  brown  bread  and 
white,  huckleberry  pudding,  chocolate  cake 
and  buttermilk  for  dinner;  muffins,  tea,  sausage 
rolls,  blackberries  and  cream,  and  doughnuts 
for  supper — that's  the  kind  of  menu  I  had  been 
preparing  three  times  a  day  for  years.  I  hadn't 
any  time  to  worry  about  what  wasn't  my  busi- 
ness. 

And  then  one  morning  I  caught  Andrew 
doing  up  a  big,  flat  parcel  for  the  postman.  He 
looked  so  sheepish  I  just  had  to  ask  what  it 
was. 

"I've  written  a  book,"  said  Andrew,  and  he 
showed  me  the  title  page — 

PARADISE  REGAINED 

BY 
ANDREW  McGiLL 

Even  then  I  wasn't  much  worried,  because 
of  course  I  knew  no  one  would  print  it.  But 
Lord!  a  month  or  so  later  came  a  letter  from  a 
publisher — accepting  it!  That's  the  letter  Ail- 


8         PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

drew  keeps  framed  above  his  desk.     Just  to 
show  how  such  things  sound  I'll  copy  it  here: 

DECAMERON,  JONES  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
UNION  SQUARE,  NEW  YORK 

January  13,  1907. 
DEAR  MR.  McGiLL: 

We  have  read  with  singular  pleasure  your  manu- 
script "Paradise  Regained."  There  is  no  doubt 
in  our  minds  that  so  spirited  an  account  of  the  joys 
of  sane  country  living  should  meet  with  popular 
approval,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  revisions 
and  abbreviations,  we  would  be  glad  to  publish  the 
book  practically  as  it  stands.  We  would  like  to  have 
it  illustrated  by  Mr.  Tortoni,  some  of  whose  work 
you  may  have  seen,  and  would  be  glad  to  know 
whether  he  may  call  upon  you  in  order  to  acquaint 
himself  with  the  local  colour  of  your  neighbourhood. 

We  would  be  glad  to  pay  you  a  royalty  of  10  per 
cent,  upon  the  retail  price  of  the  book,  and  we  enclose 
duplicate  contracts  for  your  signature  in  case  this 
proves  satisfactory  to  you. 

Believe  us,  etc.,  etc., 

DECAMERON,  JONES  &  Co. 

I  have  since  thought  that  "Paradise  Lost'* 
would  have  been  a  better  title  for  that  book. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS        9 

It  was  published  in  the  autumn  of  1907,  and 
since  that  time  our  life  has  never  been  the  same. 
By  some  mischance  the  book  became  the  suc- 
cess of  the  season;  it  was  widely  commended  as 
"a  gospel  of  health  and  sanity"  and  Andrew 
received,  in  almost  every  mail,  offers  from  pub- 
lishers and  magazine  editors  who  wanted  to 
get  hold  of  his  next  book-  It  is  almost  incredi- 
ble to  what  stratagems  publishers  will  descend 
to  influence  an  author.  Andrew  had  written 
in  "Paradise  Regained"  of  the  tramps  who  visit 
us,  how  quaint  and  appealing  some  of  them  are 
(let  me  add,  how  dirty),  and  how  we  never  turn 
away  any  one  who  seems  worthy.  Would  you 
believe  that,  in  the  spring  after  the  book  was 
published,  a  disreputable-looking  vagabond 
with  a  knapsack,  who  turned  up  one  day, 
blarneyed  Andrew  about  his  book  and  stayed 
overnight,  announced  himself  at  breakfast  as  a 
leading  New  York  publisher?  He  had  chosen 
this  ruse  in  order  to  make  Andrew's  acquaint- 
ance. 

You  can  imagine  that  it  didn't  take  long 
for  Andrew  to  become  spoiled  at  this  rate !  The 
next  year  he  suddenly  disappeared,  leaving  only 


10       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

a  note  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  tramped  all 
over  the  state  for  six  weeks  collecting  material 
for  a  new  book.  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep 
him  from  going  to  New  York  to  talk  to  editors 
and  people  of  that  sort.  Envelopes  of  newspaper 
cuttings  used  to  come  to  him,  and  he  would 
pore  over  them  when  he  ought  to  have  been 
ploughing  corn.  Luckily  the  mail  man  comes 
along  about  the  middle  of  the  morning  when 
Andrew  is  out  in  the  fields,  so  I  used  to  look 
over  the  letters  before  he  saw  them.  After 
the  second  book  ("Happiness  and  Hayseed" 
it  was  called)  was  printed,  letters  from  publish- 
ers got  so  thick  that  I  used  to  put  them  all  in 
the  stove  before  Andrew  saw  them — except 
those  from  the  Decameron  Jones  people,  which 
sometimes  held  checks.  Literary  folk  used  to 
turn  up  now  and  then  to  interview  Andrew,  but 
generally  I  managed  to  head  them  off. 

But  Andrew  got  to  be  less  and  less  of  a 
farmer  and  more  and  more  of  a  literary  man. 
He  bought  a  typewriter.  He  would  hang  over 
the  pigpen  noting  down  adjectives  for  the  sun- 
set instead  of  mending  the  weather  vane  on  the 
barn  which  took  a  slew  so  that  the  north  wind 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       11 

came  from  the  southwest.  He  hardly  ever 
looked  at  the  Sears  Roebuck  catalogues  any 
more,  and  after  Mr.  Decameron  came  to  visit 
us  and  suggested  that  Andrew  write  a  book  of 
country  poems,  the  man  became  simply  un- 
bearable. 

And  all  the  time  I  was  counting  eggs  and 
turning  out  three  meals  a  day,  and  running  the 
farm  when  Andrew  got  a  literary  fit  and  would 
go  off  on  some  vagabond  jaunt  to  collect  ad- 
ventures for  a  new  book.  (I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  the  state  he  was  in  when  he  came  back 
from  these  trips,  hoboing  it  along  the  roads 
without  any  money  or  a  clean  sock  to  his  back. 
One  time  he  returned  with  a  cough  you  could 
hear  the  other  side  of  the  barn,  and  I  had  to 
nurse  him  for  three  weeks.)  When  somebody 
wrote  a  little  booklet  about  "The  Sage  of  Red- 
field"  and  described  me  as  a  "rural  Xantippe" 
and  "  the  domestic  balance-wheel  that  kept  the 
great  writer  close  to  the  homely  realities  of  life" 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  give  Andrew  some  of 
his  own  medicine.  And  that's  my  story. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

IT  WAS  a  fine,  crisp  morning  in  fall — Oc- 
tober I  dare  say — and  I  was  in  the  kitchen 
coring  apples  for  apple  sauce.     We  were 
going  to  have  roast  pork  for  dinner  with  boiled 
potatoes    and    what    Andrew    calls    Vandyke 
brown   gravy.     Andrew   had    driven   over   to 
town  to  get  some  flour  and  feed  and  wouldn't 
be  back  till  noontime. 

Being  a  Monday,  Mrs.  McNally,  the  washer- 
woman, had  come  over  to  take  care  of  the  wash- 
ing. I  remember  I  was  just  on  my  way  out 
to  the  wood  pile  for  a  few  sticks  of  birch  when  I 
heard  wheels  turn  in  at  the  gate.  There  was 
one  of  the  fattest  white  horses  I  ever  saw,  and  a 
queer  wagon,  shaped  like  a  van.  A  funny- 
looking  little  man  with  a  red  beard  leaned  for- 
ward from  the  seat  and  said  something.  I 
didn't  hear  what  it  was,  I  was  looking  at  that 
preposterous  wagon  of  his. 

1* 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       IS 

It  was  coloured  a  pale,  robin's-egg  blue,  and 
on  the  side,  in  big  scarlet  letters,  was  painted: 

R.  MIFFLIN'S 
TRAVELLING  PARNASSUS 
GOOD  BOOKS  FOR  SALE 

SHAKESPEARE,    CHARLES   LAMB,   R.  L.  S. 
HAZLITT,  AND  ALL  OTHERS 

Underneath  the  wagon,  in  slings,  hung  what 
looked  like  a  tent,  together  with  a  lantern,  a 
bucket,  and  other  small  things.  The  van  had  a 
raised  skylight  on  the  roof,  something  like  an 
old-fashioned  trolley  car;  and  from  one  corner 
went  up  a  stove  pipe.  At  the  back  was  a  door 
with  little  windows  on  each  side  and  a  flight  of 
steps  leading  up  to  it. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  this  queer  turnout,  the 
little  reddish  man  climbed  down  from  in  front 
and  stood  watching  me.  His  face  was  a  comic 
mixture  of  pleasant  drollery  and  a  sort  of 
weather-beaten  cynicism.  He  had  a  neat  little 
russet  beard  and  a  shabby  Norfolk  jacket.  His 
head  was  very  bald. 

** Is  this  where  Andrew  McGill  lives?"  he 
said. 


14        PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

I  admitted  it. 

"  But  he's  away  until  noon,"  I  added.  "  He'll 
be  back  then.  There's  roast  pork  for  dinner." 

"And  apple  sauce?"  said  the  little  man. 

"Apple  sauce  and  brown  gravy,"  I  said. 
"  That's  why  I'm  sure  he'll  be  home  on  time. 
Sometimes  he's  late  when  there's  boiled  dinner, 
but  never  on  roast  pork  days.  Andrew  would 
never  do  for  a  rabbi." 

A  sudden  suspicion  struck  me. 

"You're  not  another  publisher,  are  you?"  I 
cried.  "What  do  you  want  with  Andrew?" 

"I  was  wondering  whether  he  wouldn't  buy 
this  outfit,"  said  the  little  man,  including,  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand,  both  van  and  white  horse. 
As  he  spoke  he  released  a  hook  somewhere,  and 
raised  the  whole  side  of  his  wagon  like  a  flap. 
Some  kind  of  catch  clicked,  the  flap  remained 
up  like  a  roof,  displaying  nothing  but  books — 
rows  and  rows  of  them.  The  flank  of  his  van 
was  nothing  but  a  big  bookcase.  Shelves  stood 
above  shelves,  all  of  them  full  of  books — both 
old  and  new.  As  I  stood  gazing,  he  pulkd 
out  a  printed  card  from  somewhere  and  gave  it 
to  me: 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       15 


ROGER  MIFFLIN'S 
TRAVELLING  PARNASSUS 

(Vorthy  friends,  my  wain  doth  hold 
Many  a  book,  both  new  and  old; 
Books,  the  truest  friends  of  man, 
Fill  this  rolling  caravan. 
Books  to  satisfy  all  uses, 
Golden  lyrics  of  the  Muses, 
Books  on  cookery  and  farming, 
Novels  passionate  and  charming, 
Every  kind  for  every  need 
So  that  he  who  buys  may  read. 
What  librarian  can  surpass  us? 

MIFFLIN'S    TRAVELLING 
PARNASSUS 

By   R.   Mifflin,   Prop'r. 
Star  Job  Print,  Celery  ville,  Va. 


While  I  was  chuckling  over  this,  he  had 
raised  a  similar  flap  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Parnassus  which  revealed  still  more  shelves 
loaded  with  books. 

I'm  afraid  I  am  severely  practical  by  nature. 

"Well!"  I  said,  "I  should  think  you  would 
need  a  pretty  stout  steed  to  lug  that  load  along, 
It  must  weigh  more  than  a  coal  wagon." 


16       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"'Oh,  Peg  can  manage  it  all  right,"  he  said. 
"We  don't  travel  very  fast.  But  look  here, 
I  wa.at  to  sell  out.  Do  you  suppose  your  hus- 
band would  buy  the  outfit — Parnassus,  Pegasus, 
and  all?  He's  fond  of  books,  isn't  he?" 

"Hold  on  a  minute!"  I  said.  "Andrew's 
my  brother,  not  my  husband,  and  he's  alto- 
gether too  fond  of  books.  Books'll  be  the  ruin 
of  this  farm  pretty  soon.  He's  mooning  about 
over  his  books  like  a  sitting  hen  about  half  the 
time,  when  he  ought  to  be  mending  harness. 
Lord,  if  he  saw  this  wagonload  of  yours  he'd  be 
unsettled  for  a  week.  I  have  to  stop  the  post- 
man down  the  road  and  take  all  the  publishers' 
catalogues  out  of  the  mail  so  that  Andrew  don't 
see  'em.  I'm  mighty  glad  he's  not  here  just 
now,  I  can  tell  you ! " 

I'm  not  literary,  as  I  said  before,  but  I'm 
human  enough  to  like  a  good  book,  and  my  eye 
was  running  along  those  shelves  of  his  as  I 
spoke.  He  certainly  had  a  pretty  miscellane- 
ous collection.  I  noticed  poetry,  essays,  nov- 
els, cook  books,  juveniles,  school  books,  Bibles, 
and  what  not — all  jumbled  together. 

"Well,  see  here,"  said  the  little  man — and 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       IT 

about  this  time  I  noticed  that  he  had  the  bright 
eyes  of  a  fanatic — "I've  been  cruising  with  this 
Parnassus  going  on  seven  years.  I've  covered 
the  territory  from  Florida  to  Maine  and  I 
reckon  I've  injected  about  as  much  good  litera- 
ture into  the  countryside  as  ever  old  Doc 
Eliot  did  with  his  five-foot  shelf.  I  want  to  sell 
out  now.  I'm  going  to  write  a  book  about 
*  Literature  Among  the  Farmers,'  and  want  to 
settle  down  with  my  brother  in  Brooklyn  and 
write  it.  I've  got  a  sackful  of  notes  for  it. 
I  guess  I'll  just  stick  around  until  Mr.  McGill 
gets  home  and  see  if  he  won't  buy  me  out.  I'll 
sell  the  whole  concern,  horse,  wagon,  and  books, 
for  $400.  I've  read  Andrew  McGill's  stuff  and 
I  reckon  the  propoiition'll  interest  him.  I've 
had  more  fun  with  this  Parnassus  than  a  barrel 
of  monkeys.  I  used  to  be  a  school  teacher  till 
my  health  broke  down.  Then  I  took  this  up 
and  I've  made  more  than  expenses  and  had  the 
time  of  my  life." 

"Well,  Mr.  Mifflin,"  I  said,  "if  you  want  to 
stay  around  I  guess  I  can't  stop  you.  But  I'm 
sorry  you  and  your  old  Parnassus  ever  came 
this  way." 


18       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

I  turned  on  my  heel  and  went  back  to  the 
kitchen.  I  knew  pretty  well  that  Andrew 
would  go  up  in  the  air  when  he  saw  that  wagon- 
load  of  books  and  one  of  those  crazy  cards  with 
Mr.  Mifflin's  poetry  on  it. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  considerably  upset. 
Andrew  is  just  as  unpractical  and  fanciful  as  a 
young  girl,  and  always  dreaming  of  new  adven- 
tures and  rambles  around  the  country.  If  he 
ever  saw  that  travelling  Parnassus  he'd  fall  for 
it  like  snap.  And  I  knew  Mr.  Decameron  was 
after  him  for  a  new  book  anyway.  (I'd  inter- 
cepted one  of  his  letters  suggesting  another 
"Happiness  and  Hayseed"  trip  just  a  few  weeks 
before.  Andrew  was  away  when  the  letter 
came.  I  had  a  suspicion  what  was  in  it;  so  I 
opened  it,  read  it,  and — well,  burnt  it.  Heavens ! 
as  though  Andrew  didn't  have  enough  to  do 
without  mooning  down  the  road  like  a  tinker, 
just  to  write  a  book  about  it.) 

As  I  worked  around  the  kitchen  I  could  see 
Mr.  Mifflin  making  himself  at  home.  He  un- 
hitched his  horse,  tied  her  up  to  the  fence,  sat 
down  by  the  wood  pile,  and  lit  a  pipe.  I  could 
see  I  was  in  for  it.  By  and  by  I  couldn't  stand 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       19 

it  any  longer.  I  went  out  to  talk  to  that  bald- 
headed  pedlar. 

"See  here,"  I  said.  "You're  a  pretty  cool 
fish  to  make  yourself  so  easy  in  my  yard.  I 
tell  you  I  don't  want  you  around  here,  you  and 
your  travelling  parcheesi.  Suppose  you  clear 
out  of  here  before  my  brother  gets  back  and 
don't  be  breaking  up  our  happy  family." 

"Miss  McGill,"  he  said  (the  man  had  a  pleas- 
ant way  with  him,  too — darn  him — with  his 
bright,  twinkling  eye  and  his  silly  little  beard), 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  be  discourteous.  If 
you  move  me  on  fromJhere,  of  course  I'll  go;  but 
I  warn  you  I  shall  lie  in  wait  for  Mr.  McGill 
just  down  this  road.  I'm  here  to  sell  this 
caravan  of  culture,  and  by  the  bones  of  Swin- 
burne I  think  your  brother's  the  man  to  buy  it." 

My  blood  was  up  now,  and  I'll  admit  that  I 
said  my  next  without  proper  calculation. 

"Rather  than  have  Andrew  buy  your  old 
parcheesi,"  I  said,  "I'll  buy  it  myself.  I'll  give 
you  $300  for  it." 

The  little  man's  face  brightened.  He  didn't 
either  accept  or  decline  my  offer.  (I  was 
frightened  to  death  that  he'd  take  me  right  on 


*0       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

the  nail  and  bang  would  go  my  three  years' 
savings  for  a  Ford.) 

"  Come  and  have  another  look  at  her,"  he  said. 

I  must  admit  that  Mr.  Roger  Mifflin  had 
fixed  up  his  van  mighty  comfortably  inside. 
The  body  of  the  wagon  was  built  out  on  each 
side  over  the  wheels,  which  gave  it  an  unwieldy 
appearance  but  made  extra  room  for  the  book- 
shelves. This  left  an  inside  space  about  five 
feet  wide  and  nine  long.  On  one  side  he  had  a 
little  oil  stove,  a  flap  table,  and  a  cozy-looking 
bunk  above  which  was  built  a  kind  of  chest  of 
drawers — to  hold  clothes  and  such  things,  I 
suppose;  on  the  other  side  more  bookshelves,  a 
small  table,  and  a  little  wicker  easy  chair. 
Every  possible  inch  of  space  seemed  to  be  made 
useful  in  some  way,  for  a  shelf  or  a  hook  or  a 
hanging  cupboard  or  something.  Above  the 
stove  was  a  neat  little  row  of  pots  and  dishes  and 
cooking  usefuls.  The  raised  skylight  made  it 
just  possible  to  stand  upright  in  the  centre  aisle 
of  the  van;  and  a  little  sliding  window  opened  on- 
to the  driver's  seat  in  front.  Altogether  it  was  a 
very  neat  affair.  The  windows  in  front  and 
back  were  curtained  and  a  pot  of  geraniums 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       21 

stood  on  a  diminutive  shelf.  I  was  amused  to 
see  a  sandy  Irish  terrier  curled  up  on  a  bright 
Mexican  blanket  in  the  bunk. 

"Miss  McGill,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  sell  Par- 
nassus for  less  than  four  hundred.  I've  put 
twice  that  much  into  her,  one  time  and  another. 
She's  built  clean  and  solid  all  through,  and 
there's  everything  a  man  would  need  from 
blankets  to  bouillon  cubes.  The  whole  thing's 
yours  for  $400 — including  dog,  cook  stove,  and 
everything — jib,  boom,  and  spanker.  There's  a 
tent  in  a  sling  underneath,  and  an  ice  box  (he 
pulled  up  a  little  trap  door  under  the  bunk)  and 
a  tank  of  coal  oil  and  Lord  knows  what  all. 
She's  as  good  as  a  yacht;  but  I'm  tired  of  her. 
If  you're  so  afraid  of  your  brother  taking  a  fancy 
to  her,  why  don't  you  buy  her  yourself  and  go  off 
on  a  lark?  Make  him  stay  home  and  mind  the 
farm!  .  .  .  Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll 
start  you  on  the  road  myself,  come  with  you  the 
first  day  and  show  you  how  it's  worked.  You 
could  have  the  time  of  your  life  in  this  thing, 
and  give  yourself  a  fine  vacation.  It  would  give 
your  brother  a  good  surprise,  too.  Why  not?" 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  neatness  of 


22       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

his  absurd  little  van,  or  the  madness  of  the  whole 
proposition,  or  just  the  desire  to  have  an  ad- 
venture of  my  own  and  play  a  trick  on  Andrew, 
but  anyway,  some  extraordinary  impulse  seized 
me  and  I  roared  with  laughter. 

"Right!"  I  said.     "I'll  do  it." 

I,  Helen  McGill,  in  the  thirty-ninth  year  of 
my  age! 


CHAPTER    THREE 

WELL,"  I  thought,  "if  I'm  in  for  an  ad- 
venture I  may  as  well  be  spry  about  it. 
Andre  w'U  be  home  by  half -past  twelve 
and  if  I'm  going  to  give  him  the  slip  I'd  better 
get  a  start.  I  suppose  he'll  think  I'm  crazy! 
He'll  follow  me,  I  guess.  Well,  he  just  shan't 
catch  me,  that's  all!"  A  kind  of  anger  came 
over  me  to  think  that  I'd  been  living  on  that  farm 
for  nearly  fifteen  years — yes,  sir,  ever  since  I  was 
twenty-five — and  hardly  ever  been  away  except 
for  that  trip  to  Boston  once  a  year  to  go  shop- 
ping with  cousin  Edie.  I'm  a  home-keeping 
soul,  I  guess,  and  I  love  my  kitchen  and  my  pre- 
serve cupboard  and  my  linen  closet  as  well  as 
grandmother  ever  did,  but  something  in  that 
blue  October  air  and  that  crazy  little  red- 
bearded  man  just  tickled  me. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Parnassus,"  I  said,  "I  guess 
I'm  a  fat  old  fool  but  I  just  believe  I'll  do  that* 

23 


«4       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

You  hitch  up  your  horse  and  van  and  I'll  go 
pack  some  clothes  and  write  you  a  check.  It'll 
do  Andrew  all  the  good  in  the  world  to  have  me 
skip.  I'll  get  a  chance  to  read  a  few  books,  too. 
It'll  be  as  good  as  going  to  college ! "  And  I  un- 
tied my  apron  and  ran  for  the  house.  The  little 
man  stood  leaning  against  a  corner  of  the  van  as 
if  he  were  stupefied.  I  dare  say  he  was. 

I  ran  into  the  house  through  the  front  door, 
and  it  struck  me  as  comical  to  see  a  copy  of  one 
of  Andrew's  magazines  lying  on  the  living-room 
table  with  "The  Revolt  of  Womanhood" 
printed  across  it  in  red  letters.  "Here  goes  for 
the  revolt  of  Helen  McGill,"  I  thought.  I  sat 
down  at  Andrew's  desk,  pushed  aside  a  pad  of 
notes  he  had  been  jotting  down  about  "the 
magic  of  autumn,"  and  scrawled  a  few  lines: 

DEAB  ANDREW, 

Don't  be  thinking  I'm  crazy.  I've  gone  off  for  an 
adventure.  It  just  came  over  me  that  you've  had 
all  the  adventures  while  I've  been  at  home  baking 
bread.  Mrs.  McNally  will  look  after  your  meals  and 
one  of  her  girls  can  come  over  to  do  the  housework. 
So  don't  worry.  I'm  going  off  for  a  little  while — a 
month,  maybe — to  see  some  of  this  happiness  and 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS      £5 

hayseed  of  yours.  It's  what  the  magazines  call  the 
revolt  of  womanhood.  Warm  underwear  in  the  cedar 
chest  in  the  spare  room  when  you  need  it. 

With  love, 
HELEN. 

I  left  the  note  on  his  desk. 

Mrs.  McNally  was  bending  over  the  tubs  in 
the  laundry.  I  could  see  only  the  broad  arch 
of  her  back  and  hear  the  vigorous  zzzzzzz  of  her 
rubbing.  She  straightened  up  at  my  call. 

"Mrs.  McNally,"  I  said,  "I'm  going  away  for 
a  little  trip.  You'd  better  let  the  washing  go 
until  this  afternoon  and  get  Andrew's  dinner  for 
him.  He'll  be  back  about  twelve-thirty.  It's 
half-past  ten  now.  You  tell  him  I've  gone  over 
to  see  Mrs.  Collins  at  Locust  Farm." 

Mrs.  McNally  is  a  brawny,  slow-witted  Swede. 
"All  right  Mis'  McGill,"  she  said.  "You  be 
back  to  denner?  " 

"No,  I'm  not  coming  back  for  a  month,"  I 
said.  "I'm  going  away  for  a  trip.  I  want  you 
to  send  Rosie  over  here  every  day  to  do  the 
housework  while  I'm  away.  You  can  arrange 
with  Mr.  McGill  about  that.  I've  got  to  hurrv 


now." 


36       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Mrs.  McNally's  honest  eyes,  as  blue  as 
Copenhagen  china,  gazing  through  the  window 
in  perplexity,  fell  upon  the  travelling  Parnas- 
sus and  Mr.  Mifflin  backing  Pegasus  into  the 
shafts.  I  saw  her  make  a  valiant  effort  to  com- 
prehend the  sign  painted  on  the  side  of  the  van — 
and  give  it  up. 

"You  going  driving?"  she  said  blankly. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  fled  upstairs. 

I  always  keep  my  bank  book  in  an  old  Huyler 
box  in  the  top  drawer  of  my  bureau.  I  don't 
save  very  quickly,  I'm  afraid.  I  have  a  little  in- 
come from  some  money  father  left  me,  but  Ac, 
drew  takes  care  of  that.  Andrew  pays  all  the 
farm  expenses,  but  the  housekeeping  accounts 
fall  to  me.  I  make  a  fairish  amount  of  pin 
money  on  my  poultry  and  some  of  my  preserves 
that  I  send  to  Boston,  and  on  some  recipes  of 
mine  that  I  send  to  a  woman's  magazine  now  and 
then;  but  generally  my  savings  don't  amount  to 
much  over  $10  a  month.  In  the  last  five  years  I 
had  put  by  something  more  than  $600.  I  had 
been  saving  up  for  a  Ford.  But  just  now  it 
looked  to  me  as  if  that  Parnassus  would  be  more 


PARNASSDS    ON    WHEELS       27 

fun  than  a  Ford  ever  could  be.  Four  hundred 
dollars  was  a  lot  of  money,  but  I  thought  of 
what  it  would  mean  to  have  Andrew  come  home 
and  buy  it.  Why,  he'd  be  away  until  Thanks- 
giving! Whereas  if  I  bought  it  I  could  take 
it  away,  have  my  adventure,  and  sell  it  some- 
where so  that  Andrew  never  need  see  it.  I 
hardened  my  heart  and  determined  to  give  the 
Sage  of  Redfield  some  of  his  own  medicine. 

My  balance  at  the  Redfield  National  Bank 
was  $615.20.  I  sat  down  at  the  table  in  my  bed- 
room where  I  keep  my  accounts  and  wrote  out  a 
check  to  Roger  Mifflin  for  $400.  I  put  in  plenty 
of  curlicues  after  the  figures  so  that  no  one  could 
raise  the  check  into  $400,000;  then  I  got  out  my 
old  rattan  suit  case  and  put  in  some  clothes. 
The  whole  business  didn't  take  me  ten  minutes. 
I  came  downstairs  to  find  Mrs.  McNally  looking 
sourly  at  the  Parnassus  from  the  kitchen  door. 

"You  going  away  in  that — that  'bus,  Mis' 
McGill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  McNally,"  I  said  cheerfully.  Her 
use  of  the  word  gave  me  an  inspiration.  "That's 
one  of  the  new  jitney  'buses  we  hear  about.  He's 
going  to  take  me  to  the  station.  Don't  you 


28       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

worry  about  me.  I'm  going  for  a  holiday.  You 
get  Mr.  McGilPs  dinner  ready  for  him.  After 
dinner  tell  him  there's  a  note  for  him  in  the 
living-room." 

"I  tank  that  bane  a  queer  'bus,"  said  Mrs. 
McNally,  puzzled.  I  think  the  excellent  woman 
suspected  an  elopement. 

I  carried  my  suit  case  out  to  the  Parnassus. 
Pegasus  stood  placidly  between  the  shafts. 
From  within  came  sounds  of  vigorous  move- 
ment. In  a  moment  the  little  man  burst  out 
with  a  bulging  portmanteau  in  his  hand.  He 
had  a  tweed  cap  slanted  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"There!"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "I've 
packed  all  my  personal  effects — clothes  and  so 
on — and  everything  else  goes  with  the  trans- 
action. When  I  get  on  the  train  with  this 
bag  I'm  a  free  man,  and  hurrah  for  Brooklyn! 
Lord,  won't  I  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  city!  I 
lived  in  Brooklyn  once,  and  I  haven't  been  back 
there  for  ten  years,"  he  added  plaintively. 

"Here's  the  check,"  I  said,  handing  it  to  him. 
He  flushed  a  little,  and  looked  at  me  rather 
shamefacedly.  "See  here,"  he  said,  "I  hope 
you're  not  making  a  bad  bargain?  I  don't  want 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       29 

to  take  advantage  of  a  lady.  If  you  think  your 
brother.  .  .  ." 

"I  was  going  to  buy  a  Ford,  anyway,"  I  said, 
"and  it  looks  to  me  as  though  this  parcheesi  of 
yours  would  be  cheaper  to  run  than  any  flivver 
that  ever  came  out  of  Detroit.  I  want  to  keep 
it  away  from  Andrew  and  that's  the  main  thing. 
You  give  me  a  receipt  and  we'll  get  away  from 
here  before  he  comes  back." 

He  took  the  check  without  a  word,  hoisted  his 
fat  portmanteau  on  the  driver's  seat,  and  then 
disappeared  in  the  van.  In  a  minute  he  re- 
appeared. On  the  back  of  one  of  his  poetical 
cards  he  had  written: 

Received  from  Miss  McGill  the  sum  of  four  hun- 
dred dollars  in  exchange  for  one  Travelling  Parnassus 
in  first  class  condition,  delivered  to  her  this  day, 

October  3rd,  19 .    Signed 

ROGER  MIFFLIN. 


"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "does  your  Parnassus — my 
Parnassus,  rather — contain  everything  I'm 
likely  to  need?  Is  it  stocked  up  with  food  and 
soon?" 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  he  said.     "You'U 


90       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

find  a  fair  supply  of  stuff  in  the  cupboard  over 
the  stove,  though  I  used  to  get  most  of  my  meals 
at  farmhouses  along  the  road.  I  generally  read 
aloud  to  people  as  I  go  along,  and  they're  often 
good  for  a  free  meal.  It's  amazing  how  little 
most  of  the  country  folk  know  about  books,  and 
how  pleased  they  are  to  hear  good  stuff.  Dow# 
in  Lancaster  County,  Pennsylvania.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  how  about  the  horse?"  I  said  hastily, 
seeing  him  about  to  embark  on  an  anecdote.  It 
wasn't  far  short  of  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  was 
anxious  to  get  started. 

"It  might  be  well  to  take  along  some  oats. 
My  supply's  about  exhausted." 

I  filled  a  sack  with  oats  in  the  stable  and  Mr. 
Mifflin  showed  me  where  to  hang  it  under  the 
van.  Then  in  the  kitchen  I  loaded  a  big  basket 
with  provisions  for  an  emergency :  a  dozen  eggs,  a 
jar  of  sliced  bacon,  butter,  cheese,  condensed 
milk,  tea,  biscuits,  jam,  and  two  loaves  of  bread. 
These  Mr.  Mifflin  stowed  inside  the  van,  Mrs. 
McNally  watching  in  amazement. 

"I  tank  this  bane  a  queer  picnic!"  she  said. 
"  Which  way  you  going?  Mr.  McGill,  is  he 
coming  after  you?" 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       31 

"No,"  I  insisted,  "he's  not  coming.  I'm 
going  off  on  a  holiday.  You  get  dinner  for  him 
and  he  won't  worry  about  anything  until  after 
that.  Tell  him  I've  gone  over  to  see  Mrs. 
Collins." 

I  climbed  the  little  steps  and  entered  my  Par- 
nassus with  a  pleasant  thrill  of  ownership.  The 
terrier  on  the  bunk  jumped  to  the  floor  with  a 
friendly  wag  of  the  tail.  I  piled  the  bunk  with 
bedding  and  blankets  of  my  own,  shook  out  the 
drawers  which  fitted  above  the  bunk,  and  put 
into  them  what  few  belongings  I  was  taking  with 
me.  And  we  were  ready  to  start. 

Redbeard  was  already  sitting  in  front  with  the 
reins  in  hand.  I  climbed  up  beside  him.  The 
front  seat  was  broad  but  uncushioned,  well 
sheltered  by  the  peak  of  the  van.  I  gave  a 
quick  glance  around  at  the  comfortable  house 
under  its  elms  and  maples — saw  the  big,  red 
barn  shining  in  the  sun  and  the  pump  under  the 
grape  arbour.  I  waved  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Nally  who  was  watching  us  in  silent  amazement. 
Pegasus  threw  her  solid  weight  against  the 
traces  and  Parnassus  swung  round  and  rolled 
past  the  gate.  We  turned  into  the  Redfield  road. 


32       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Here,"  said  Mifflin,  holding  me  the  reins, 
"you're  skipper,  you'd  better  drive.  Which 
way  do  you  want  to  go?" 

My  breath  came  a  little  fast  when  I  realized 
that  my  adventure  had  begun! 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

JUST  out  of  sight  of  the  farm  the  road  forks, 
one  way  running  on  to  Walton  where  you 
cross  the  river  by  a  covered  bridge,  the 
other  swinging  down  toward  Greenbriar  and  Port 
Vigor.  Mrs.  Collins  lives  a  mile  or  so  up  the 
Walton  road,  and  as  I  very  often  run  over  to  see 
her  I  thought  Andrew  would  be  most  likely  to 
look  for  me  there.  So,  after  we  had  passed 
through  the  grove,  I  took  the  right-hand  turn  to 
Greenbriar.  We  began  the  long  ascent  over 
Huckleberry  Hill  and  as  I  smelt  the  fresh  aut- 
umn odour  of  the  leaves  I  chuckled  a  little. 

Mr.  Mifflin  seemed  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of 
high  spirits.  "This  is  certainly  grand,"  he 
said.  "Lord,  I  applaud  your  spunk.  Do  you 
think  Mr.  McGill  will  give  chase?" 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  I  said.  "Not  right  away,, 
anyhow.  He's  so  used  to  my  settled  ways  that 
I  don't  think  he'll  suspect  anything  till  he  finds 

93 


34       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

my  note.  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  story  Mrs. 
McNally  will  tell!" 

"How  about  putting  him  off  the  scent?"  he 
said.  "Give  me  your  handkerchief." 

I  did  so.  He  hopped  nimbly  out,  ran  back 
down  the  hill  (he  was  a  spry  little  person  in  spite 
of  his  bald  crown),  and  dropped  the  handkerchief 
on  the  Walton  Road  about  a  hundred  feet  be- 
yond the  fork.  Then  he  followed  me  up  the 
slope. 

"There,"  he  said,  grinning  like  a  kid,  "that'll 
fool  him.  The  Sage  of  Redfield  will  undoubt- 
edly follow  a  false  spoor  and  the  criminals  will 
win  a  good  start.  But  I'm  afraid  it's  rather  easy 
to  follow  a  craft  as  unusual  as  Parnassus." 

"Tell  me  how  you  manage  the  thing,"  I  said. 
""Do  you  really  make  it  pay?"  We  halted  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  to  give  Pegasus  a  breathing 
space.  The  terrier  lay  down  in  the  dust  and 
Watched  us  gravely.  Mr.  Mifflin  pulled  out  a 
pipe  and  begged  my  permission  to  smoke. 

"It's  rather  comical  how  I  first  got  into  it,"  he 
said.  "I  was  a  school  teacher  down  in  Mary* 
land.  I'd  been  plugging  away  in  a  country 
school  for  years,  on  a  starvation  salary.  I  was 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       35 

trying  to  support  an  invalid  mother,  and  put  by 
something  in  case  of  storms.  I  remember  how  I 
used  to  wonder  whether  I'd  ever  be  able  to  wear 
a  suit  that  wasn't  shabby  and  have  my  shoes 
polished  every  day.  Then  my  health  went  back 
on  me.  The  doctor  told  me  to  get  into  the  open 
air.  By  and  by  I  got  this  idea  of  a  travelling 
bookstore.  I  had  always  been  a  lover  of  books, 
and  in  the  days  when  I  boarded  out  among  the 
farmers  I  used  to  read  aloud  to  them.  After  my 
mother  died  I  built  the  wagon  to  suit  my  own 
ideas,  bought  a  stock  of  books  from  a  big  second- 
hand store  in  Baltimore,  and  set  out.  Par- 
nassus just  about  saved  my  life  I  guess." 

He  pushed  his  faded  old  cap  back  on  his  head 
and  relit  his  pipe.  I  clicked  to  Pegasus  and  we 
rumbled  gently  off  over  the  upland,  looking 
down  across  the  pastures.  Distant  cow  bells 
sounded  tankle-tonk  among  the  bushes.  Across 
the  slope  of  the  hill  I  could  see  the  road  winding 
away  to  Redfield.  Somewhere  along  that  road 
Andrew  would  be  rolling  back  toward  home  and 
roast  pork  with  apple  sauce;  and  here  was  I, 
setting  out  on  the  first  madness  of  my  life  with- 
out even  a  qualm. 


36       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Miss  McGill,"  said  the  little  man,  "this 
rolling  pavilion  has  been  wife,  doctor,  and  re- 
ligion to  me  for  seven  years.  A  month  ago  I 
would  have  scoffed  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her; 
but  somehow  it's  come  over  me  I  need  a  change. 
There's  a  book  I've  been  yearning  to  write  for 
a  long  time,  and  I  need  a  desk  steady  under  my 
elbows  and  a  roof  over  my  head.  And  silly  as  it 
seems,  I'm  crazy  to  get  back  to  Brooklyn.  My 
brother  and  I  used  to  live  there  as  kids.  Think 
of  walking  over  the  old  Bridge  at  sunset  and 
seeing  the  towers  of  Manhattan  against  a  red 
sky!  And  those  old  gray  cruisers  down  in  the 
Navy  Yard !  You  don't  know  how  tickled  I  am 
to  sell  out.  I've  sold  a  lot  of  copies  of  your 
brother's  books  and  I've  often  thought  he'd  be 
the  man  to  buy  Parnassus  if  I  got  tired  of  her." 

"So  he  would,"  I  said.  "Just  the  man.  He'd 
be  only  too  likely  to — and  go  maundering  about 
in  this  jaunting  car  and  neglect  the  farm.  But 
tell  me  about  selling  books.  How  much  profit 
do  you  make  out  of  it?  We'll  be  passing  Mrs. 
Mason's  farm,  by  and  by,  and  we  might  as  well 
sell  her  something  just  to  make  a  start." 

"It's  very  simple,"  he  said.     "I  replenish  my 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       rfT 

stock  whenever  I  go  through  a  big  town. 
There's  always  a  second-hand  bookstore  some- 
where about,  where  you  can  pick  up  odds  and 
ends.  And  every  now  and  then  I  write  to  a 
wholesaler  in  New  York  for  some  stuff.  When  I 
buy  a  book  I  mark  in  the  back  just  what  I  paid 
for  it,  then  I  know  what  I  can  afford  to  sell  it  for. 
See  here." 

He  pulled  up  a  book  from  behind  the  seat — a 
copy  of  "Lorna  Doone"  it  was — and  showed  me 
the  letters  a  m  scrawled  in  pencil  in  the  back. 

"That  means  that  I  paid  ten  cents  for  this. 
Now,  if  you  sell  it  for  a  quarter  you've  got  a  safe 
profit.  It  costs  me  about  four  dollars  a  week  to 
run  Parnassus — generally  less.  If  you  clear  that 
much  in  six  days  you  can  afford  to  lay  off  on 
Sundays!" 

"How  do  you  know  that  a  m  stands  for  ten 
cents?"  I  asked. 

"The  code  word's  manuscript.  Each  letter 
stands  for  a  figure,  from  0  up  to  9,  see?"  He 
scrawled  it  down  on  a  scrap  of  paper: 

manuscript 
0 123456789 


S8       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Now,  you  see  a  m  stands  for  10,  an  would  be  1£, 
n  s  is  24,  a  c  is  15,  a  m  m  is  $1.00,  and  so  on.  I 
don't  pay  much  over  fifty  cents  for  books  as 
a  rule,  because  country  folks  are  shy  of  paying 
much  for  them.  They'll  pay  a  lot  for  a  sep- 
arator or  a  buggy  top,  but  they've  never  been 
taught  to  worry  about  literature!  But  it's  sur- 
prising how  excited  they  get  about  books  if  you 
sell  'em  the  right  kind.  Over  beyond  Port 
Vigor  there's  a  farmer  who's  waiting  for  me  to 
go  back — I've  been  there  three  or  four  times — 
and  he'll  buy  about  five  dollars'  worth  if  I  know 
him.  First  time  I  went  there  I  sold  him 
4  Treasure  Island,'  and  he's  talking  about  it  yet. 
I  sold  him  'Robinson  Crusoe,'  and  'Little 
Women'  for  his  daughter,  and  'Huck  Finn/ 
and  Grubb's  book  about  'The  Potato.'  Last 
time  I  was  there  he  wanted  some  Shakespeare, 
but  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  him.  I  didn't  think  he 
was  up  to  it  yet." 

I  began  to  see  something  of  the  little  man's 
idealism  in  his  work.  He  was  a  kind  of  travel- 
ling missionary  in  his  way.  A  hefty  talker,  too. 
His  eyes  were  twinkling  now  and  I  could  see  him 
Warming  up. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       39 

"Lord!"  he  said,  "when  you  sell  a  man  a  book 
you  don't  sell  him  just  twelve  ounces  of  paper 
and  ink  and  glue — you  sell  him  a  whole  new  life. 
Love  and  friendship  and  humour  and  ships  at 
sea  by  night — there's  all  heaven  and  earth  in  a 
book,  a  real  book  I  mean.  Jiminy!  If  I  were 
the  baker  or  the  butcher  or  the  broom  huckster, 
people  would  run  to  the  gate  when  I  came  by — just 
waiting  for  my  stuff.  And  here  I  go  loaded  with 
everlasting  salvation — yes,  ma'am,  salvation  for 
their  little,  stunted  minds — and  it's  hard  to  make 
'em  see  it.  That's  what  makes  it  worth  while — • 
I'm  doing  something  that  nobody  else  from 
Nazareth,  Maine,  to  Walla  Walla,  Washington, 
has  ever  thought  of.  It's  a  new  field,  but  by  the 
bones  of  Whitman  it's  worth  while.  That's 
what  this  country  needs — more  books!" 

He  laughed  at  his  own  vehemence.  "Do  you 
know,  it's  comical,"  he  said.  "Even  the  pub- 
lishers, the  fellows  that  print  the  books,  can't 
see  what  I'm  doing  for  them.  Some  of  'em  re- 
fuse me  credit  because  I  sell  their  books  for  what 
they're  worth  instead  of  for  the  prices  they  mark 
on  them.  They  write  me  letters  about  price- 
maintenance — and  I  write  back  about  merit- 


40       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

maintenance.  Publish  a  good  book  and  I'll 
get  a  good  price  for  it,  say  I!  Sometimes  I 
think  the  publishers  know  less  about  books  than 
any  one  else!  I  guess  that's  natural,  though. 
Most  school  teachers  don't  know  much  about 
children." 

"The  best  of  it  is,"  he  went  on,  "I  have  such  a 
darn  good  time.  Peg  and  Bock  (that's  the  dog) 
and  I  go  loafing  along  the  road  on  a  warm  sum- 
mer day,  and  by  and  by  we'll  fetch  up  alongside 
some  boarding-house  and  there  are  the  boarders 
all  rocking  off  their  lunch  on  the  veranda.  Most 
of  'em  bored  to  death — nothing  good  to  read, 
nothing  to  do  but  sit  and  watch  the  flies  buzzing 
in  the  sun  and  the  chickens  rubbing  up  and  down 
in  the  dust.  First  thing  you  know  I'll  sell 
half  a  dozen  books  that  put  the  love  of  life  into 
them,  and  they  don't  forget  Parnassus  in  a  hurry. 
Take  O.  Henry,  for  instance — there  isn't  any- 
body so  dog-gone  sleepy  that  he  won't  enjoy  that 
man's  stories.  He  understood  life,  you  bet,  and 
he  could  write  it  down  with  all  its  little  twists. 
I've  spent  an  evening  reading  O.  Henry  and 
Wilkie  Collins  to  people  and  had  them  buy  out 
all  their  books  I  had  and  clamour  for  more." 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       41 

"What  do  you  do  in  winter?"  I  asked — a 
practical  question,  as  most  of  mine  are. 

"That  depends  on  where  I  am  when  bad 
weather  sets  in,"  said  Mr.  Mifflin.  "Two 
winters  I  was  down  south  and  managed  to  keep 
Parnassus  going  all  through  the  season.  Other- 
wise, I  just  lay  up  wherever  I  am.  I've  never 
found  it  hard  to  get  lodging  for  Peg  and  a  job  for 
myself,  if  I  had  to  have  them.  Last  winter  I 
worked  in  a  bookstore  in  Boston.  Winter  before, 
I  was  in  a  country  drugstore  down  in  Pennsyl- 
vania. Winter  before  that,  I  tutored  a  couple 
of  small  boys  in  English  literature.  Winter  be- 
fore that,  I  was  a  steward  on  a  steamer;  you  see 
how  it  goes.  I've  had  a  fairly  miscellaneous  ex- 
perience. As  far  as  I  can  see,  a  man  who's  fond 
of  books  never  need  starve !  But  this  winter  I'm 
planning  to  live  with  my  brother  in  Brooklyn 
and  slog  away  at  my  book.  Lord,  how  I've 
pondered  over  that  thing !  Long  summer  after- 
noons I've  sat  here,  jogging  along  in  the  dust, 
thinking  it  out  until  it  seemed  as  if  my  forehead 
would  burst.  You  see,  my  idea  is  that  the  com- 
mon people — in  the  country,  that  is — never 
have  had  any  chance  to  get  hold  of  books. 


42       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

and  never  have  had  any  one  to  explain  what 
books  can  mean.  It's  all  right  for  college  presi- 
dents to  draw  up  their  five-foot  shelves  of  great 
literature,  and  for  the  publishers  to  advertise 
sets  of  their  Linoleum  Classics,  but  what  the 
people  need  is  the  good,  homely,  honest  stuff — 
something  that'll  stick  to  their  ribs — make  them 
laugh  and  tremble  and  feel  sick  to  think  of  the 
littleness  of  this  popcorn  ball  spinning  in  space 
without  ever  even  getting  a  hot-box!  And 
something  that'll  spur  'em  on  to  keep  the  hearth 
well  swept  and  the  wood  pile  split  into  kindling 
and  the  dishes  washed  and  dried  and  put  away. 
Any  one  who  can  get  the  country  people  to  read 
something  worth  while  is  doing  his  nation  a  reaJ 
service.  And  that's  what  this  caravan  of  cul- 
ture aspires  to.  ...  You  must  be  weary 
of  this  harangue!  Does  the  Sage  of  Redfield 
ever  run  on  like  that?" 

"Not  to  me,"  I  said.  "He's  known  me  so 
long  that  he  thinks  of  me  as  a  kind  of  animated 
bread-baking  and  cake-mixing  machine.  I 
guess  he  doesn't  put  much  stock  in  my  judgment 
in  literary  matters.  But  he  puts  his  digestion  in 
my  hands  without  reserve.  There's  Mason's 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       43 

farm  over  there.  I  guess  we'd  better  sell  them 
some  books — hadn't  we?  Just  for  a  starter." 

We  turned  into  the  lane  that  runs  up  to  the 
Mason  farmhouse.  Bock  trotted  on  ahead — 
very  stiff  on  his  legs  and  his  tail  gently  wagging — 
to  interview  the  mastiff,  and  Mrs.  Mason  who 
was  sitting  on  the  porch,  peeling  potatoes,  laid 
down  the  pan.  She's  a  big,  buxom  woman  with 
jolly,  brown  eyes  like  a  cow's. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Miss  McGill,"  she  called 
out  in  a  cheerful  voice — "I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Got  a  lift,  did  you?" 

She  hadn't  really  noticed  the  inscription  on 
Parnassus,  and  thought  it  was  a  regular  huck- 
ster's wagon. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Mason,"  I  said,  "I've  gone  into 
the  book  business.  This  is  Mr.  Mifflin.  I've 
bought  out  his  stock.  We've  come  to  sell  you 
some  books." 

She  laughed.  "Go  on,  Helen,"  she  said, 
"you  can't  kid  me!  I  bought  a  whole  set  of 
books  last  year  from  an  agent — 'The  World's 
Great  Funeral  Orations' — twenty  volumes. 
Sam  and  I  ain't  read  more'n  the  first  volume  yet. 
It's  awful  uneasy  reading!" 


44       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Mifflin  jumped  down,  and  raised  the  side  flap 
of  the  wagon.  Mrs.  Mason  came  closer.  I  was 
tickled  to  see  how  the  little  man  perked  up  at  the 
sight  of  a  customer.  Evidently  selling  books 
was  meat  and  drink  to  him. 

"Madam,"  he  said, "  'Funeral  Orations'  (bound 
in  sackcloth,  I  suppose?)  have  their  place,  but 
Miss  McGill  and  I  have  got  some  real  books  here 
to  which  I  invite  your  attention.  Winter  will  be 
here  soon,  and  you  will  need  something  more 
cheerful  to  beguile  your  evenings.  Very  pos- 
sibly you  have  growing  children  who  would  profit 
by  a  good  book  or  two.  A  book  of  fairy  tales  for 
the  little  girl  I  see  on  the  porch?  Or  stories  of 
inventors  for  that  boy  who  is  about  to  break  his 
neck  jumping  from  the  barn  loft?  Or  a  book 
about  road  making  for  your  husband?  Surely 
there  is  something  here  you  need?  Miss  McGill 
probably  knows  your  tastes." 

That  little  red-bearded  man  was  surely  a  born 
saleman.  How  he  guessed  that  Mr.  Mason  was 
the  road  commissioner  in  our  township,  goodness 
only  knows.  Perhaps  it  was  just  a  lucky  shot. 
By  this  time  most  of  the  family  had  gathered 
around  the  van,  and  I  saw  Mr.  Mason  com- 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       45 

ing  from  the  barn  with  his  twelve-year-old 
Billy. 

"Sam,"  shouted  Mrs.  Mason,  "here's  Miss 
McGill  turned  book  pedlar  and  got  a  preacher 
with  her!" 

"Hello,  Miss  McGill,"  said  Mr.  Mason.  He 
is  a  big,  slow-moving  man  of  great  gravity  and 
solidity.  "  Where's  Andrew?  " 

"Andrew's  coming  home  for  roast  pork  and 
apple  sauce,"  I  said,  "and  I'm  going  off  to  sell 
books  for  a  living.  Mr.  Mifflin  here  is  teaching 
me  how.  We've  got  a  book  on  road  mending 
that's  just  what  you  need." 

I  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mason  exchange  glances. 
Evidently  they  thought  me  crazy.  I  began  to 
wonder  whether  we  had  made  a  mistake  in  call- 
ing on  people  I  knew  so  well.  The  situation  was 
a  trifle  embarrassing. 

Mr.  Mifflin  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Mason.  "I  haven't  kidnapped  Miss  McGill." 
(As  he  is  about  half  my  size  this  was  amusing.) 
"We  are  trying  to  increase  her  brother's  income 
by  selling  his  books  for  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we  have  a  wager  with  him  that  we  can  sell  fifty 


46       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

copies  of  'Happiness  and  Hayseed'  before 
Hallowe'en.  Now  I'm  sure  your  sporting  in- 
stinct will  assist  us  by  taking  at  least  one  copy. 
Andrew  McGill  is  probably  the  greatest  author 
in  this  State,  and  every  taxpayer  ought  to 
possess  his  books.  May  I  show  you  a  copy?" 

"That  sounds  reasonable,"  said  Mr.  Mason, 
and  he  almost  smiled.  "What  do  you  say, 
Emma,  think  we  better  buy  a  book  or  two? 
You  know  those  'Funeral  Orations.'  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Ernma,  "you  know  we've  al- 
ways said  we  ought  to  read  one  of  Andrew  Mc- 
Gill's  books  but  we  didn't  rightly  know  how  to 
get  hold  of  one.  That  fellow  that  sold  us  the 
funeral  speeches  didn't  seem  to  know  about  'em. 
I  tell  you  what,  you  folks  better  stop  and  have 
dinner  with  us  and  you  can  tell  us  what  we'd 
ought  to  buy.  I'm  just  ready  to  put  the  po- 
tatoes on  the  stove  now." 

I  must  confess  that  the  prospect  of  sitting 
down  to  a  meal  I  hadn't  cooked  myself  appealed 
to  me  strongly;  and  I  was  keen  to  see  what  kind 
of  grub  Mrs.  Mason  provided  for  her  house- 
hold; but  I  was  afraid  that  if  we  dallied  there  too 
long  Andrew  would  be  after  us.  I  was  about  to 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       47 

say  that  we  would  have  to  be  getting  on,  and 
couldn't  stay;  but  apparently  the  zest  of  ex- 
pounding his  philosophy  to  new  listeners  was  too 
much  for  Mifflin.  I  heard  him  saying: 

"That's  mighty  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Mason,  and 
we'd  like  very  much  to  stay.  Perhaps  I  can  put 
Peg  up  in  your  barn  for  a  while.  Then  we  can 
tell  you  all  about  our  books."  And  to  my 
amazement  I  found  myself  chiming  in  with 
assent. 

Mifflin  certainly  surpassed  himself  at  dinner. 
The  fact  that  Mrs.  Mason's  hot  biscuits  tasted 
of  saleratus  gave  me  far  less  satisfaction  than  it 
otherwise  would,  because  I  was  absorbed  in 
listening  to  the  little  vagabond's  talk.  Mr. 
Mason  came  to  the  table  grumbling  something 
about  his  telephone  being  out  of  order — (I 
wondered  whether  he  had  been  trying  to  get 
Andrew  on  the  wire;  he  was  a  little  afraid  that  I 
was  being  run  away  with,  I  think) — but  he  was 
soon  won  over  by  the  current  of  the  little  man's 
cheery  wit.  Nothing  daunted  Mifflin .  He  talked 
to  the  old  grandmother  about  quilts;  offered  to 
cut  off  a  strip  of  his  necktie  for  her  new  patch- 
work; and  told  all  about  the  illustrated  book  on 


48       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

quilts  that  he  had  in  the  van.  He  discussed 
cookery  and  the  Bible  with  Mrs.  Mason;  and  she 
being  a  leading  light  in  the  Greenbriar  Sunday 
School,  was  pleasantly  scandalized  by  his  ac- 
count of  the  best  detective  stories  in  the  Old 
Testament.  With  Mr.  Mason  he  was  all 
scientific  farming,  chemical  manures,  macadam 
roads,  and  crop  rotation;  and  to  little  Billy  (who 
sat  next  him)  he  told  extraordinary  yarns  about 
Daniel  Boone,  Davy  Crockett,  Kit  Carson, 
Buffalo  Bill,  and  what  not.  Honestly  I  was 
amazed  at  the  little  man.  He  was  as  genial  as  a 
cricket  on  the  hearth,  and  yet  every  now  and 
then  his  earnestness  would  break  through.  I 
don't  wonder  he  was  a  success  at  selling  books. 
That  man  could  sell  clothes  pins  or  Paris 
garters,  I  guess,  and  make  them  seem  roman- 
tic. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Mason,"  he  said,  "you  cer- 
tainly owe  it  to  these  youngsters  of  yours  to  put 
a  few  really  good  books  into  their  hands.  City 
kids  have  the  libraries  to  go  to,  but  in  the 
country  there's  only  old  Doc  Hostetter's  Al- 
manac and  the  letters  written  by  ladies  with 
backache  telling  how  Peruna  did  for  them. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       49 

Give  this  boy  and  girl  of  yours  a  few  good 
books  and  you're  starting  them  on  the  double- 
track,  block-signal  line  to  happiness.  Now 
there's  'Little  Women' — that  girl  of  yours  can 
learn  more  about  real  girlhood  and  fine  woman- 
hood out  of  that  book  than  from  a  year's  paper 
dolls  in  the  attic." 

"That's  right,  Pa,"  assented  Mrs  Mason. 
("Go  on  with  your  meal,  Professor,  the  meat'll 
be  cold.")  She  was  completely  won  by  the 
travelling  bookseller,  and  had  given  him  the 
highest  title  of  honour  in  her  ken.  "Why,  I 
read  that  story  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I  still  re- 
member it.  That's  better  readin'  for  Dorothy 
than  those  funeral  speeches,  I  reckon.  I  be- 
lieve the  Professor's  right:  we'd  ought  to  have 
more  books  laying  around.  Seems  kind  of  a 
shame,  with  a  famous  author  at  the  next  farm, 
not  to  read  more,  don't  it,  now?" 

So  by  the  time  we  got  down  to  Mrs.  Mason's 
squash  pie  (good  pie,  too,  I  admit,  but  her  hand 
is  a  little  heavy  for  pastry),  the  whole  house- 
hold was  enthusiastic  about  books,  and  the  at- 
mosphere was  literary  enough  for  even  Dr.  Eliot 
to  live  in  without  panting.  Mrs.  Mason  opened 


50       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

up  her  parlour  and  we  sat  there  while  Mifflin 
recited  "The  Revenge"  and  "Maud  Muller." 

"Well,  now,  ain't  that  real  sweet! "  said  Emma 
Mason.  "It's  surprising  how  those  words 
rhyme  so  nicely.  Seems  almost  as  though  it  was 
done  a-purpose!  Reminds  me  of  piece  day  at 
school.  There  was  a  mighty  pretty  piece  I 
learned  called  the  'Wreck  of  the  Asperus.'" 
And  she  subsided  into  a  genteel  melancholy. 

I  saw  that  Mr.  Mifflin  was  well  astride  his 
hobby:  he  had  started  to  tell  the  children  about 
Robin  Hood,  but  I  had  the  sense  to  give  him  a 
wink.  We  had  to  be  getting  along  or  surely 
Andrew  might  be  on  us.  So  while  Mifflin  was 
putting  Pegasus  into  the  shafts  again  I  picked 
out  seven  or  eight  books  that  I  thought  would 
fit  the  needs  of  the  Masons.  Mr.  Mason  in- 
sisted that  "Happiness  and  Hayseed"  be  in- 
cluded among  them,  and  gave  me  a  crisp  five- 
dollar  bill,  refusing  any  change.  "No,  no,"  he 
said,  "I've  had  more  fun  than  I  get  at  a  grange 
meeting.  Come  round  again,  Miss  McGill;  I'm 
going  to  tell  Andrew  what  a  good  show  thia 
travelling  theayter  of  yours  gives!  And  you, 
Professor,  any  time  you're  here  about  road* 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS        51 

mending  season,  stop  in  an'  tell  me  some  more 
good  advice.  Well,  I  must  get  back  to  the 
field." 

Bock  fell  in  under  the  van,  and  we  creaked  off 
down  the  lane.  Mifflin  filled  his  pipe  and  was 
chuckling  to  himself.  I  was  a  little  worried  now 
for  fear  Andrew  might  overtake  us. 

"It's  a  wonder  Sam  Mason  didn't  call  up 
Andrew,"  I  said.  "It  must  have  looked  mighty 
queer  to  him  for  an  old  farm  hand  like  me  to  be 
around,  peddling  books." 

"He  would  have  done  it  straight  off,"  said 
Mifflin,  "but  you  see,  I  cut  his  telephone  wire!" 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

I  GAZED  in  astonishment  at  the  wizened 
•  little  rogue.  Here  was  a  new  side  to  the 
amiable  idealist!  Apparently  there  was  a 
streak  of  fearless  deviltry  in  him  besides  his 
gentle  love  of  books.  I'm  bound  to  say  that 
now,  for  the  first  time,  I  really  admired  him.  I 
had  burnt  my  own  very  respectable  boats  be- 
hind me,  and  I  rather  enjoyed  knowing  that  he, 
too,  could  act  briskly  in  a  pinch. 

"Well!"  I  said.  "You  are  a  cool  hand!  It's 
a  good  job  for  you  that  you  didn't  stay  a  school- 
master. You  might  have  taught  your  pupils 
some  fine  deviltries!  And  at  your  age,  too!'* 

I'm  afraid  my  raillery  goes  a  little  too  far 
sometimes.  He  flushed  a  bit  at  my  reference  to 
his  age,  and  puffed  sharply  at  his  pipe. 

"I  say,"  he  rejoined,  "how  old  do  you  think 
I  am,  anyway?  Only  forty-one,  by  the  bones  of 
Byron !  Henry  Ylll  was  only  forty-one  when  he 

52 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       53 

married  Anne  Boleyn.  There  are  many  con- 
solations in  history  for  people  over  forty!  Re- 
member that  when  you  get  there." 

"Shakespeare  wrote  'King  Lear'  at  forty- 
one,"  he  added,  more  humorously;  and  then 
burst  out  laughing.  "I'd  like  to  edit  a  series  of 
'Chloroform  Classics,'  to  include  only  books 
written  after  forty.  Who  was  that  doctor  man 
who  recommended  anaesthetics  for  us  at  that 
age?  Now  isn't  that  just  like  a  medico?  Nurse 
us  through  the  diseases  of  childhood,  and  as  soon 
as  we  settle  down  into  permanent  good  health 
and  worldly  wisdom,  and  freedom  from  doctors' 
fees,  why  he  loses  interest  in  us!  Jove!  I 
must  note  that  down  and  bring  it  into  my 
book." 

He  pulled  out  a  memorandum  book  and  jotted 
down  "Chloroform  Classics"  in  a  small,  neat 
hand. 

"Well,"  I  said  (I  felt  a  little  contrite,  as  I  was 
sincerely  sorry  to  have  offended  him),  "I've 
passed  forty  myself  in  some  measurements,  so 
youth  no  longer  has  any  terrors  for  me." 

He  looked  at  me  rather  comically. 

"My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  "your  age  is 


54       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

precisely  eighteen.  I  think  that  if  we  escape  the 
clutches  of  the  Sage  of  Redfield  you  may  really 
begin  to  live." 

"  Oh,  Andrew's  not  a  bad  sort,"  I  said.  "  He's 
absent-minded,  and  hot  tempered,  and  a  little 
selfish.  The  publishers  have  done  their  best  to 
spoil  him,  but  for  a  literary  man  I  guess  he's 
quite  human.  He  rescued  me  from  being  a 
governess,  and  that's  to  his  credit.  If  only  he 
didn't  take  his  meals  quite  so  much  as  a  matter 
of  course.  .  .  ." 

"The  preposterous  thing  about  him  is  that  he 
really  can  write,"  said  Mifflin.  "I  envy  him 
that.  Don't  let  him  know  I  said  so,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  his  prose  is  almost  as  good  as 
Thoreau.  He  approaches  facts  as  daintily  as  a 
cat  crossing  a  wet  road." 

"You  should  see  him  at  dinner,"  I  thought;  or 
rather  I  meant  to  think  it,  but  the  words  slipped 
out.  I  found  myself  thinking  aloud  in  a  rather 
disconcerting  way  while  sitting  with  this  strange 
little  person. 

He  looked  at  me.  I  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  his  eyes  were  slate  blue,  with  funny  birds* 
foot  wrinkles  at  the  corners. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       55 

"That's  so,"  he  said.  "I  never  thought  of 
that.  A  fine  prose  style  certainly  presupposes 
sound  nourishment.  Excellent  point  that  .  .  . 
And  yet  Thoreau  did  his  own  cooking.  A  sort 
of  Boy  Scout  I  guess,  with  a  badge  as  kitchen 
master.  Perhaps  he  took  Beechnut  bacon  with 
him  into  the  woods.  I  wonder  who  cooked  for 
Stevenson — Gummy?  The  'Child's  Garden  of 
Verses'  was  really  a  kind  of  kitchen  garden, 
wasn't  it?  I'm  afraid  the  commissariat  problem 
has  weighed  rather  heavily  on  you.  I'm  glad 
you've  got  away  from  it." 

All  this  was  getting  rather  intricate  for  me.  I 
set  it  down  as  I  remember  it,  inaccurately  per- 
haps. My  governess  days  are  pretty  far  astern 
now,  and  my  line  is  common  sense  rather  than 
literary  allusions.  I  said  something  of  the  sort. 

"Common  sense?"  he  repeated.  "Good 
Lord,  ma'am,  sense  is  the  most  uncommon  thing 
in  the  world.  I  haven't  got  it.  I  don't  believe 
your  brother  has,  from  what  you  say.  Bock 
here  has  it.  See  how  he  trots  along  the  road, 
keeps  an  eye  on  the  scenery,  and  minds  his  own 
business.  I  never  saw  him  get  into  a  fight  yet. 
Wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  myself.  I  named 


56       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

him  after  Boccaccio,  to  remind  me  to  read  the 
'Decameron'  some  day." 

"Judging  by  the  way  you  talk,"  I  said,  "you 
ought  to  be  quite  a  writer  yourself." 

"Talkers  never  write.     They  go  on  talking." 

There  was  a  considerable  silence.  Mifflin  re- 
lit his  pipe  and  watched  the  landscape  with  a 
shrewd  eye.  I  held  the  reins  loosely,  and  Peg 
ambled  along  with  a  steady  clop-clop.  Par- 
nassus creaked  musically,  and  the  mid-after- 
noon sun  lay  rich  across  the  road.  We  passed 
another  farm,  but  I  did  not  suggest  stopping  as  I 
felt  we  ought  to  push  on.  Mifflin  seemed  lost  in 
meditation,  and  I  began  to  wonder,  a  little  un- 
easily, how  the  adventure  would  turn  out. 
This  quaintly  masterful  little  man  was  a  trifle 
disconcerting.  Across  the  next  ridge  I  could  see 
the  Greenbriar  church  spire  shining  white. 

"Do  you  know  this  part  of  the  country?"  I 
asked  finally. 

"Not  this  exact  section.  I've  been  in  Port 
Vigor  often,  but  then  I  was  on  the  road  that 
runs  along  the  Sound.  I  suppose  this  village 
ahead  is  Greenbriar?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said.     "It's  about  thirteen  miles  from 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       51 

there  to  Port  Vigor.  How  do  you  expect  to  get 
back  to  Brooklyn?" 

"Oh,  Brooklyn?"  he  said  vaguely.  "Yes, 
I'd  forgotten  about  Brooklyn  for  the  minute.  I 
was  thinking  of  my  book.  Why,  I  guess  I'll 
take  the  train  from  Port  Vigor.  The  trouble 
is,  you  can  never  get  to  Brooklyn  without  going 
through  New  York.  It's  symbolic,  I  suppose.'1 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Finally  he  said, 
"Is  there  another  town  between  Greenbriar  and 
Port  Vigor?" 

"Yes,  Shelby,"  I  said.  "About  five  miles 
from  Greenbriar." 

"That'll  be  as  far  as  you'll  get  to-night,"  he 
said.  "I'll  see  you  safe  to  Shelby,  and  then 
make  tracks  for  Port  Vigor.  I  hope  there's  a 
decent  inn  at  Shelby  where  you  can  stop  over- 
night." 

I  hoped  so,  too,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him 
see  that  with  the  waning  afternoon  my  enthu- 
siasm was  a  little  less  robust.  I  was  wondering 
what  Andrew  was  thinking,  and  whether  Mrs. 
McNally  had  left  things  in  good  order.  Like 
most  Swedes  she  had  to  be  watched  or  she  left 
her  work  only  three  quarters  done.  And  I 


58       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

didn't  depend  any  too  much  on  her  daughter 
Rosie  to  do  the  housework  efficiently.  I  won- 
dered what  kind  of  meals  Andrew  would  get. 
And  probably  he  would  go  right  on  wearing 
his  summer  underclothes,  although  I  had  already 
reminded  him  about  changing.  Then  there 
were  the  chickens  .  .  . 

Well,  the  Rubicon  was  crossed  now,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done. 

To  my  surprise,  little  Redbeard  had  divined 
my  anxiety.  "Now  don't  you  worry  about 
the  Sage,"  he  said  kindly.  "A  man  that  draws 
his  royalties  isn't  going  to  starve.  By  the  bones 
of  John  Murray,  his  publishers  can  send  him  a 
cook  if  necessary!  This  is  a  holiday  for  you, 
and  don't  you  forget  it." 

And  with  this  cheering  sentiment  in  my  mind, 
we  rolled  sedately  down  the  hill  toward  Greem 
briar. 

I  am  about  as  hardy  as  most  folks,  I  think, 
but  I  confess  I  balked  a  little  at  the  idea  of 
facing  the  various  people  I  know  in  Greenbriar 
as  the  owner  of  a  bookvan  and  the  companion 
cf  a  literary  huckster.  Also  I  recollected  that 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS        59 

if  Ajidrew  should  try  to  trace  us  it  would  be  as 
well  for  me  to  keep  out  of  sight.  So  after  tell- 
ing Mr.  Mifflin  how  I  felt  about  matters  I 
dived  into  the  Parnassus  and  lay  down  most 
comfortably  on  the  bunk.  Bock  the  terrier 
joined  me,  and  I  rested  there  in  great  comfort 
of  mind  and  body  as  we  ambled  down  the  grade. 
The  sun  shone  through  the  little  skylight  gilding 
a  tin  pan  that  hung  over  the  cook  stove.  Tacked 
here  and  there  were  portraits  of  authors,  and  I 
noticed  a  faded  newspaper  cutting  pinned  up. 
The  headlines  ran:  "Literary  Pedlar  Lectures 
on  Poetry."  I  read  it  through.  Apparently 
the  Professor  (so  I  had  begun  to  call  him,  as  the 
aptness  of  the  nickname  stuck  in  my  mind)  had 
given  a  lecture  in  Camden,  N.  J.,  where  he  had 
asserted  that  Tennyson  was  a  greater  poet  than 
Walt  Whitman;  and  the  boosters  of  the  Camden 
poet  had  enlivened  the  evening  with  missiles. 
It  seems  that  the  chief  Whitman  disciple  in 
Camden  is  Mr.  Traubel;  and  Mr.  Mifflin  had 
started  the  rumpus  by  asserting  that  Tennyson, 
too,  had  "Traubels  of  his  own."  What  an 
absurd  creature  the  Professor  was,  I  thought,  as 
I  lay  comfortably  lulled  by  the  rolling  wheels. 


60       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Greenbriar  is  a  straggling  little  town,  built 
around  a  large  common  meadow.  Mifflin's 
general  plan  in  towns,  he  had  told  me,  was  to 
halt  Parnassus  in  front  of  the  principal  store 
or  hotel,  and  when  a  little  throng  had  gathered 
he  would  put  up  the  flaps  of  the  van,  distribute 
his  cards,  and  deliver  a  harangue  on  the  value 
of  good  books.  I  lay  concealed  inside,  but  I 
gathered  from  the  sounds  that  this  was  what  was 
happening.  We  came  to  a  stop;  I  heard  a 
growing  murmur  of  voices  and  laughter  outside, 
and  then  the  click  of  the  raised  sides  of  the 
wagon.  I  heard  Mifflin's  shrill,  slightly  nasal 
voice  making  facetious  remarks  as  he  passed 
out  the  cards.  Evidently  Bock  was  quite 
accustomed  to  the  routine,  for  though  his  tail 
wagged  gently  when  the  Professor  began  to  talk, 
he  lay  quite  peaceably  dozing  at  my  feet. 

"My  friends,"  said  Mr.  Mifflin.  "You  re- 
member Abe  Lincoln's  joke  about  the  dog? 
If  you  call  a  tail  a  leg,  said  Abe,  how  many  legs 
has  a  dog?  Five,  you  answer.  No,  says  Abe; 
because  calling  a  tail  a  leg  doesn't  make  it  a  leg. 
Well,  there  are  lots  of  us  in  the  same  case  as 
that  dog's  tail.  Calling  us  men  doesn't  make 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       61 

us  men.  No  creature  on  earth  has  a  right  to 
think  himself  a  human  being  if  he  doesn't  know 
at  least  one  good  book.  The  man  that  spends 
every  evening  chewing  Piper  Heidsieck  at  the 
store  is  unworthy  to  catch  the  intimations  of  a 
benevolent  Creator.  The  man  that's  got  a 
few  good  books  on  his  shelf  is  making  his  wife 
happy,  giving  his  children  a  square  deal,  and  he's 
likely  to  be  a  better  citizen  himself.  How 
about  that,  parson?" 

I  heard  the  deep  voice  of  Reverend  Kane,  the 
Methodist  minister:  "You're  dead  right,  Pro- 
fessor!" he  shouted.  "Tell  us  some  more  about 
books.  I'm  right  with  you!"  Evidently  Mr. 
Kane  had  been  attracted  by  the  sight  of  Par- 
nassus, and  I  could  hear  him  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  pulled  one  or  two  books  from  the 
shelves.  How  surprised  he  would  have  been 
if  he  had  known  I  was  inside  the  van!  I  took 
the  precaution  of  slipping  the  bolt  of  the  door 
at  the  back,  and  drew  the  curtains.  Then  I 
crept  back  into  the  bunk.  I  began  to  imagine 
what  an  absurd  situation  there  would  be  if 
Andrew  should  arrive  on  the  scene. 

"You  are  all  used  to  hucksters  and  pedlars 


62        PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

and  fellows  selling  every  kind  of  junk  from 
brooms  to  bananas,"  said  the  Professor's  voice. 
"But  how  often  does  any  one  come  round  here 
to  sell  you  books?  You've  got  your  town  library, 
I  dare  say;  but  there  are  some  books  that  folks 
ought  to  own.  I've  got  'em  all  here  from  Bibles 
to  cook  books.  They'll  speak  for  themselves. 
Step  up  to  the  shelves,  friends,  and  pick  and 
choose." 

I  heard  the  parson  asking  the  price  of  some* 
thing  he  had  found  on  the  shelves,  and  I  believe 
he  bought  it;  but  the  hum  of  voices  around  the 
flanks  of  Parnassus  was  very  soothing,  and  in 
spite  of  my  interest  in  what  was  going  on  I'm 
afraid  I  fell  asleep.  I  must  have  been  pretty 
tired;  anyway  I  never  felt  the  van  start  again. 
The  Professor  says  he  looked  in  through  the 
little  window  from  the  driver's  seat,  and  saw  me 
sound  asleep.  And  the  next  thing  I  knew  I 
woke  up  with  a  start  to  find  myself  rolling  leis- 
urely in  the  dark.  Bock  was  still  lying  over  my 
feet,  and  there  was  a  faint,  musical  clang  from 
the  bucket  under  the  van  which  struck  against 
something  now  and  then.  The  Professor  was 
sitting  in  front,  with  a  lighted  lantern  hanging 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       63 

from  the  peak  of  the  van  roof.  He  was  hum- 
ming some  outlandish  song  to  himself,  with  a 
queer,  monotonous  refrain: 

Shipwrecked  was  I  off  Soft  Perowse 

And  right  along  the  shore, 
And  so  I  did  resolve  to  roam 

The  country  to  explore. 
Tommy  rip  fal  lal  and  a  balum  tip 

Tommy  rip  fal  lal  I  dee; 
And  so  I  did  resolve  to  roam 

The  country  for  to  see  I 

I  jumped  out  of  the  bunk,  cracked  my  shins 
against  something,  and  uttered  a  rousing  halloo. 
Parnassus  stopped,  and  the  Professor  pushed 
back  the  sliding  window  behind  the  driver's  seat. 

"Heavens!"  I  said.  "Father  Time,  what 
o'clock  is  it?" 

"Pretty  near  supper  time,  I  reckon.  You 
must  have  fallen  asleep  while  I  was  taking 
money  from  the  Philistines.  I  made  nearly 
three  dollars  for  you.  Let's  pull  up  along  the 
road  and  have  a  bite  to  eat." 

He  guided  Pegasus  to  one  side  of  the  road,  and 
then  showed  me  how  to  light  the  swinging  lamp 


64       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

that  hung  under  the  skylight.  "No  use  to  light 
the  stove  on  a  lovely  evening  like  this,"  he  said. 
"I'll  collect  some  sticks  and  we  can  cook  outside. 
You  get  out  your  basket  of  grub  and  I'll  make 
a  fire."  He  unhitched  Pegasus,  tied  her  to  a 
tree,  and  gave  her  a  nose  bag  of  oats.  Then  he 
rooted  around  for  some  twigs  and  had  a  fire 
going  in  a  jiffy.  In  five  minutes  I  had  bacon 
and  scrambled  eggs  sizzling  in  a  frying  pan,  and 
he  had  brought  out  a  pail  of  water  from  the 
cooler  under  the  bunk,  and  was  making  tea. 

I  never  enjoyed  a  picnic  so  much!  It  was  a 
perfect  autumn  evening,  windless  and  frosty, 
with  a  dead  black  sky  and  a  tiny  rim  of  new 
moon  like  a  thumb-nail  paring.  We  had  our 
eggs  and  bacon,  washed  down  with  tea  and 
condensed  milk,  and  followed  by  bread  and  jam. 
The  little  fire  burned  blue  and  cozy,  and  we  sat 
one  each  side  of  it  while  Bock  scoured  the  pan 
and  ate  the  crusts. 

"This  your  own  bread,  Miss  McGill?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  was  calculating  the  other 
day  that  I've  baked  more  than  400  loaves  a  year 
for  the  last  fifteen  years.  That's  more  than 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS      65 

6,000  loaves  of  bread.  They  can  put  that  on 
my  tombstone." 

"The  art  of  baking  bread  is  as  transcendent  a 
mystery  as  the  art  of  making  sonnets,"  said 
Redbeard.  "And  then  your  hot  biscuits — they 
might  be  counted  as  shorter  lyrics,  I  suppose — • 
triolets  perhaps.  That  makes  quite  an  an- 
thology, or  a  doxology,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"Yeast  is  yeast,  and  West  is  West,"  I  said, 
and  was  quite  surprised  at  my  own  cleverness. 
I  hadn't  made  a  remark  like  that  to  Andrew  in 
five  years. 

"I  see  you  are  acquainted  with  Kipling,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  yes,  every  governess  is." 

"Where  and  whom  did  you  govern?" 

"I  was  in  New  York,  with  the  family  of  a 
wealthy  stockbroker.  There  were  three  children. 
I  used  to  take  them  walking  in  Central  Park." 

"Did  you  ever  go  to";  Brooklyn?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"Never,"  I  replied. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "That's  just  the  trouble. 
New  York  is  Babylon;  Brooklyn  is  the  true 
Holy  City.  New  York  is  the  city  of  envy, 


66       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

office  work,  and  hustle;  Brooklyn  is  the  region 
of  homes  and  happiness.  It  is  extraordinary: 
poor,  harassed  New  Yorkers  presume  to  look 
down  on  low-lying,  home-loving  Brooklyn,  when 
as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  the  precious  jewel  their 
souls  are  thirsting  for  and  they  never  know  it. 
Broadway:  think  how  symbolic  the  name  is. 
Broad  is  the  way  that  leadeth  to  destruction! 
But  in  Brooklyn  the  ways  are  narrow,  and  they 
lead  to  the  Heavenly  City  of  content.  Central 
Park:  there  you  are — the  centre  of  things, 
hemmed  in  by  walls  of  pride.  Now  how  much 
better  is  Prospect  Park,  giving  a  fair  view  over 
the  hills  of  humility!  There  is  no  hope  for 
New  Yorkers,  for  they  glory  in  their  skyscrap- 
ing  sins;  but  in  Brooklyn  there  is  the  wisdona 
of  the  lowly." 

"So  you  think  that  if  I  had  been  a  governess 
in  Brooklyn  I  should  have  been  so  contented 
that  I  would  never  have  come  with  Andrew 
and  compiled  my  anthology  of  6,000  loaves  of 
bread  and  the  lesser  lyrics?" 

But  the  volatile  Professor  had  already  soared 
to  other  points  of  view,  and  was  not  to  be 
thwarted  by  argument. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       67 

"Of  course  Brooklyn  is  a  dingy  place,  really," 
he  admitted.  "But  to  me  it  symbolizes  a 
state  of  mind,  whereas  New  York  is  only  a  state 
of  pocket.  You  see  I  was  a  boy  in  Brooklyn: 
it  still  trails  clouds  of  glory  for  me.  When  I 
get  back  there  and  start  work  on  my  book  I 
shall  be  as  happy  as  Nebuchadnezzar  when  he 
left  off  grass  and  returned  to  tea  and  crumpets. 
'Literature  Among  the  Farmers'  I'm  going  to  call 
it,  but  that's  a  poor  title.  I'd  like  to  read  you 
some  of  my  notes  for  it." 

I'm  afraid  I  poorly  concealed  a  yawn.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  was  sleepy,  and  it  was  growing 
chilly. 

"Tell  me  first,"  I  said,  "where  in  the  world 
are  we,  and  what  time  is  it?" 

He  pulled  out  a  turnip  watch.  "It's  nine 
o'clock,"  he  said,  "and  we're  about  two  miles 
from  Shelby,  I  should  reckon.  Perhaps  we'd 
better  get  along.  They  told  me  in  Greenbriar 
that  the  Grand  Central  Hotel  in  Shelby  is  a 
good  place  to  stop  at.  That's  why  I  wasn't 
anxious  to  get  there.  It  sounds  so  darned 
like  New  York." 

He  bundled  the  cooking  utensils  back  into 


68       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Parnassus,  hitched  Peg  up  again,  and  tied  Bock 
to  the  stern  of  the  van.  Then  he  insisted  on 
giving  me  the  two  dollars  and  eighty  cents  he 
had  collected  in  Greenbriar.  I  was  really  too 
sleepy  to  protest,  and  of  course  it  was  mine 
anyway.  We  creaked  off  along  the  dark  and 
silent  road  between  the  pine  woods.  I  think 
he  talked  fluently  about  his  pilgrim's  progress 
among  the  farmers  of  a  dozen  states,  but  (to  be 
honest)  I  fell  asleep  in  my  corner  of  the  seat. 
I  woke  up  when  we  halted  before  the  one  hotel 
in  Shelby — a  plain,  unimposing  country  innr 
despite  its  absurd  name.  I  left  him  to  put 
Parnassus  and  the  animals  away  for  the  night, 
while  I  engaged  a  room.  Just  as  I  got  my  key 
from  the  clerk  he  came  into  the  dingy  lobby. 

"Well,  Mr.  Mifflin,"  I  said.  "Shall  I  see  you 
in  the  morning?" 

"I  had  intended  to  push  on  to  Port  Vigor 
to-night,"  he  said,  "but  as  it's  fully  eight 
miles  (they  tell  me),  I  guess  I'll  bivouac  here. 
I  think  I'll  go  into  the  smoking-room  and  put 
them  wise  to  some  good  books.  We  won't 
say  good-bye  till  to-morrow." 

My  room  was  pleasant  and  clean  (fairly  so). 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       69 

I  took  my  suit  case  up  with  me  and  had  a  hot 
bath.  As  I  fell  asleep  I  heard  a  shrill  voice 
ascending  from  below,  punctuated  with  mascu- 
line laughter.  Ike  Pilgrim  was  making  more 
converts! 


CHAPTER    SIX 

I  HAD  a  curious  feeling  of  bewilderment 
when  I  woke  the  next  morning.  The  bare 
room  with  the  red-and-blue  rag  carpet 
and  green  china  toilet  set  was  utterly  strange. 
In  the  hall  outside  I  heard  a  clock  strike. 
'"Heavens!"  I  thought,  "I've  overslept  myself 
nearly  two  hours.  What  on  earth  will  Andrew 
do  for  breakfast?"  And  then  as  I  ran  to  close 
the  window  I  saw  the  blue  Parnassus  with  its 
startling  red  letters  standing  in  the  yard.  In- 
stantly I  remembered.  And  discreetly  peeping 
from  behind  the  window  shade  I  saw  that  the 
Professor,  armed  with  a  tin  of  paint,  was  blot- 
ting out  his  own  name  on  the  side  of  the  van, 
evidently  intending  to  substitute  mine.  That 
was  something  I  had  not  thought  of.  However, 
I  might  as  well  make  the  best  of  it. 

I  dressed  promptly,  repacked  my  bag,  and 
hurried   downstairs   for  breakfast.     The  long 

70 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       71 

table  was  nearly  empty,  but  one  or  two  men 
sitting  at  the  other  end  eyed  me  curiously. 
Through  the  window  I  could  see  my  name  in 
large,  red  letters,  growing  on  the  side  of  the  van, 
as  the  Professor  diligently  wielded  his  brush. 
And  when  I  had  finished  my  coffee  and  beans 
and  bacon  I  noticed  with  some  amusement 
that  the  Professor  had  painted  out  the  line 
about  Shakespeare,  Charles  Lamb,  and  so  on, 
and  had  substituted  new  lettering.  The  sign 
now  read: 

H.  MCGILL'S 

TRAVELLING  PARNASSUS 

GOOD  BOOKS  FOR  SALE 

COOK  BOOKS  A  SPECIALTY 

INQUIRE  WITHIN 

Evidently  he  distrusted  my  familiarity  with 
the  classics. 

I  paid  my  bill  at  the  desk,  and  was  careful 
also  to  pay  the  charge  for  putting  up  the  horse 
and  van  overnight.  Then  I  strolled  into  the 
stable  yard,  where  I  found  Mr.  Mifflin  regarding 
his  handiwork  with  satisfaction.  He  had  fresh- 


72       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

ened  up  all  the  red  lettering,  which  shone  brilli- 
antly in  the  morning  sunlight. 

"  Good-morning,"  I  said. 

He  returned  it. 

"There!"  he  cried — "Parnassus  is  really 
yours!  All  the  world  lies  before  you!  And 
I've  got  some  more  money  for  you.  I  sold 
some  books  last  night.  I  persuaded  the  hotel 
keeper  to  buy  several  volumes  of  O.  Henry  for 
his  smoking-room  shelf,  and  I  sold  the  'Waldorf 
Cook  Book*  to  the  cook.  My!  wasn't  her 
coffee  awful?  I  hope  the  cook  book  will  better 
it." 

He  handed  me  two  limp  bills  and  a  handful 
of  small  change.  I  took  it  gravely  and  put  it 
in  my  purse.  This  was  really  not  bad — more 
than  ten  dollars  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours. 

"Parnassus  seems  to  be  a  gold  mine,"  I  said. 

"Which  way  do  you  think  you'll  go?"  he 
asked. 

"Well,  as  I  know  you  want  to  get  to  Port 
Vigor  I  might  just  as  well  give  you  a  lift  that 
way. "  I  answered. 

"  Good !  I  was  hoping  you'd  say  that.  They 
tell  me  the  stage  for  Port  Vigor  doesn't  leave 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       73 

till  noon,  and  I  think  it  would  kill  me  to  hang 
around  here  all  morning  with  no  books  to  sell. 
Once  I  get  on  the  train  I'll  be  all  right." 

Bock  was  tied  up  in  a  corner  of  the  yard> 
under  the  side  door  of  the  hotel.  I  went  over 
to  release  him  while  the  Professor  was  putting 
Peg  into  harness.  As  I  stooped  to  unfasten 
the  chain  from  his  collar  I  heard  some  one  talk* 
ing  through  the  telephone.  The  hotel  lobby 
was  just  over  my  head,  and  the  window  was 
open. 

"What  did  you  say ?" 


"McGill?  Yes,  sir,  registered  here  last  night. 
She's  here  now." 

I  didn't  wait  to  hear  more.  Unfastening 
Bock,  I  hurried  to  tell  Mifflin.  His  eyes 
sparkled. 

"The  Sage  is  evidently  on  our  spoor, s'  ne 
chuckled.  "Well,  let's  be  off.  I  don't  see  what 
he  can  do  even  if  he  overhauls  us." 

The  clerk  was  calling  me  from  the  window: 
"Miss  McGill,  your  brother's  on  the  wire  and 
asks  to  speak  to  you." 

"Tell  him  I'm  busy,"  I  retorted,  and  climbed 


74       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

onto  the  seat.  It  was  not  a  diplomatic  reply, 
I'm  afraid,  but  I  was  too  exhilarated  by  the 
keen  morning  and  the  spirit  of  adventure  to 
stop  to  think  of  a  better  answer.  Mifflin 
clucked  to  Peg,  and  off  we  went. 

The  road  from  Shelby  to  Port  Vigor  runs 
across  the  broad  hill  slopes  that  trend  toward 
the  Sound;  and  below,  on  our  left,  the  river 
lay  glittering  in  the  valley.  It  was  a  perfect 
landscape:  the  woods  were  all  bronze  and  gold; 
the  clouds  were  snowy  white  and  seemed  like 
heavenly  washing  hung  out  to  air;  the  sun  was 
warm  and  swam  gloriously  in  an  arch  of  superb 
blue.  My  heart  was  uplifted  indeed.  For  the 
first  time,  I  think,  I  knew  how  Andrew  feels  on 
those  vagabond  trips  of  his.  Why  had  all  this 
been  hidden  from  me  before?  Why  had  the 
transcendent  mystery  of  baking  bread  blinded 
me  so  long  to  the  mysteries  of  sun  and  sky  and 
wind  in  the  trees?  We  passed  a  white  farm- 
house close  to  the  road.  By  the  gate  sat  the 
farmer  on  a  log,  whittling  a  stick  and  smoking 
his  pipe.  Through  the  kitchen  window  I  could 
see  a  woman  blacking  the  stove.  I  wanted  to 
cry  out:  "Oh,  silly  woman!  Leave  your  stove, 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS        75 

your  pots  and  pans  and  chores,  even  if  only 
for  one  day!  Come  out  and  see  the  sun  in  the 
sky  and  the  river  in  the  distance!"  The 
farmer  looked  blankly  at  Parnassus  as  we 
passed,  and  then  I  remembered  my  mission  as  a 
distributor  of  literature.  Mifflin  was  sitting 
with  one  foot  on  his  bulging  portmanteau, 
watching  the  tree  tops  rocking  in  the  cool  wind. 
He  seemed  to  be  far  away  in  a  morning  muse. 
I  threw  down  the  reins  and  accosted  the  farmer. 

"Good-morning,  friend." 

"Morning  to  you,  ma'am,"  he  said  firmly. 

"I'm  selling  books,"  I  said.  "I  wonder  if 
there  isn't  something  you  need?" 

"Thanks,  lady,"  he  said,  "but  I  bought  a 
mort  o'  books  last  year  an'  I  don't  believe  I'll 
ever  read  'em  this  side  Jordan.  A  whole  set 
o'  'Funereal  Orations'  what  an  agent  left  on 
me  at  a  dollar  a  month.  I  could  qualify  as 
earnest  mourner  at  any  death-bed  merry- 
makin'  now,  I  reckon." 

"You  need  some  books  to  teach  you  how  to 
live,  not  how  to  die,"  I  said.  "How  about 
your  wife — wouldn't  she  enjoy  a  good  book? 
How  about  some  fairy  tales  for  the  children?" 


76       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Bless  me,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  got  a  wife. 
I  never  was  a  daring  man,  and  I  guess  I'll 
confine  my  melancholy  pleasures  to  them 
funereal  orators  for  some  time  yet." 

"Well,  now,  hold  on  a  minute!"  I  exclaimed. 
"I've  got  just  the  thing  for  you."  I  had 
been  looking  over  the  shelves  with  some  care, 
and  remembered  seeing  a  copy  of  "Reveries  of 
a  Bachelor."  I  clambered  down,  raised  the 
flap  of  the  van  (it  gave  me  quite  a  thrill  to  do 
it  myself  for  the  first  time),  and  hunted  out 
the  book.  I  looked  inside  the  cover  and  saw 
the  letters  n  m  in  Mifflin's  neat  hand. 

"Here  you  are,"  I  said.  "I'll  sell  you  that 
for  thirty  cents." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  ma'am,"  he  said  cour- 
teously. "But  honestly  I  wouldn't  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  I  am  working  through  a  govern- 
ment report  on  scabworm  and  fungus,  and  I 
sandwich  in  a  little  of  them  funereal  speeches 
with  it,  and  honestly  that's  about  all  the  readin* 
I  figure  on.  That  an'  the  Port  Vigor  Clarion:' 

I  saw  that  he  really  meant  it,  so  I  climbed 
back  on  the  seat.  I  would  have  liked  to 
talk  to  the  woman  in  the  kitchen  who  was 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       77 

peering  out  of  the  window  in  amazement,  but 
I  decided  it  would  be  better  to  jog  on  and  not 
waste  time.  The  farmer  and  I  exchanged 
friendly  salutes,  and  Parnassus  rumbled  on. 

The  morning  was  so  lovely  that  I  did  not  feel 
talkative,  and  as  the  Professor  seemed  pensive 
I  said  nothing.  But  as  Peg  plodded  slowly  up 
a  gentle  slope  he  suddenly  pulled  a  book  out 
of  his  pocket  and  began  to  read  aloud.  I  was 
watching  the  river,  and  did  not  turn  round,  but 
listened  carefully: 

"Rolling  cloud,  volleying  wind,  and  wheeling 
sun — the  blue  tabernacle  of  sky,  the  circle  of  the 
seasons,  the  sparkling  multitude  of  the  stars — 
all  these  are  surely^  part  of  one  rhythmic,  mystic 
whole.  Everywhere,  as  we  go  about  our  small 
business,  we  must  discern  the  fingerprints  of 
the  gigantic  plan,  the  orderly  and  inexorable 
routine  with  neither  beginning  nor  end,  in  which 
death  is  but  a  preface  to  another  birth,  and  birth 
the  certain  forerunner  of  another  death.  We 
human  beings  are  as  powerless  to  conceive  the 
motive  or  the  moral  of  it  all  as  the  dog  is  power- 
less to  understand  the  reasoning  in  his  masters 
mind.  He  sees  the  master's  acts,  benevolent 


78       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

or  malevolent,  and  wags  his  tail.  But  the  master9 s 
acts  are  always  inscrutable  to  him.  And  so  with 
us. 

"  And  therefore,  brethren,  let  us  take  the  road 
with  a  light  heart.  Let  us  praise  the  bronze  of 
the  leaves  and  the  crash  of  the  surf  while  we  have 
eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear.  An  honest  amaze- 
ment at  the  unspeakable  beauties  of  the  world  is 
a  comely  posture  for  the  scholar.  Let  us  all  be 
scholars  under  Mother  Nature's  eye. 

"How  do  you  like  that?"  he  asked. 

"A  little  heavy,  but  very  good,"  I  said. 
"There's  nothing  in  it  about  the  transcendent 
mystery  of  baking  bread!" 

He  looked  rather  blank. 

"Do  you  know  who  wrote  it?"  he  asked. 

I  made  a  valiant  effort  to  summon  some  of 
my  governessly  recollections  of  literature. 

"I  give  it  up,"  I  said  feebly.     "Is  it  Carlyle?" 

"  That  is  by  Andrew  McGill,"  he  said.  "  One 
of  his  cosmic  passages  which  are  now  beginning 
to  be  reprinted  in  schoolbooks.  The  blighter 
writes  well." 

I  began  to  be  uneasy  lest  I  should  be  put 
through  a  literary  catechism,  so  I  said  nothing, 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       79 

but  roused  Peg  into  an  amble.  To  tell  the 
truth  I  was  more  curious  to  hear  the  Professor 
talk  about  his  own  book  than  about  Andrew's. 
I  had  always  carefully  refrained  from  reading 
Andrew's  stuff,  as  I  thought  it  rather  dull. 

"As  for  me,"  said  the  Professor,  "I  have  no 
facility  at  the  grand  style.  I  have  always 
suffered  from  the  feeling  that  it's  better  to 
read  a  good  book  than  to  write  a  poor  one; 
and  I've  done  so  much  mixed  reading  in  my 
time  that  my  mind  is  full  of  echoes  and  voices 
of  better  men.  But  this  book  I'm  worrying 
about  now  really  deserves  to  be  written,  I  think, 
for  it  has  a  message  of  its  own." 

He  gazed  almost  wistfully  across  the  sunny 
valley.  In  the  distance  I  caught  a  glint  of  the 
Sound.  The  Professor's  faded  tweed  cap  was 
slanted  over  one  ear,  and  his  stubby  little 
beard  shone  bright  red  in  the  sun.  I  kept  a 
sympathetic  silence.  He  seemed  pleased  to 
have  some  one  to  talk  to  about  his  precious 
book. 

"The  world  is  full  of  great  writers  about 
literature,"  he  said,  "but  they're  all  selfish  and 
aristocratic.  Addison,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Emer- 


80       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

son,  Lowell — take  any  one  you  choose — they 
all  conceive  the  love  of  books  as  a  rare  and 
perfect  mystery  for  the  few — a  thing  of  the 
secluded  study  where  they  can  sit  alone  at 
night  with  a  candle,  and  a  cigar,  and  a  glass 
of  port  on  the  table  and  a  spaniel  on  the  hearth- 
rug. What  I  say  is,  who  has  ever  gone  out 
into  high  roads  and  hedges  to  bring  literature 
home  to  the  plain  man?  To  bring  it  home 
to  his  business  and  bosom,  as  somebody  says? 
The  farther  into  the  country  you  go,  the  fewer 
and  worse  books  you  find.  I've  spent  several 
years  joggling  around  with  this  citadel  of  crime, 
and  by  the  bones  of  Ben  Ezra  I  don't  think  I 
ever  found  a  really  good  book  (except  the 
Bible)  at  a  farmhouse  yet,  unless  I  put  it 
there  myself.  The  mandarins  of  culture — 
what  do  they  do  to  teach  the  common  folk  to 
read?  It's  no  good  writing  down  lists  of  books 
for  farmers  and  compiling  five-foot  shelves; 
you've  got  to  go  out  and  visit  the  people 
yourself — take  the  books  to  them,  talk  to  the 
teachers  and  bully  the  editors  of  country  news- 
papers and  farm  magazines  and  telJ  the  children 
stories — and  then  little  by  little  you  begin  to 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       81 

get  good  books  circulating  in  the  veins  of  the 
nation.  It's  a  great  work,  mind  you!  It's 
like  carrying  the  Holy  Grail  to  some  of  these 
way-back  farmhouses.  And  I  wish  there  were 
a  thousand  Parnassuses  instead  of  this  one. 
I'd  never  give  it  up  if  it  weren't  for  my  book: 
but  I  want  to  write  about  my  ideas  in  the  hope 
of  stirring  other  folk  up,  too.  I  don't  suppose 
there's  a  publisher  in  the  country  will  take  it!" 

"Try  Mr.  Decameron,"  I  said.  "He's  al- 
ways been  very  nice  to  Andrew." 

"Think  what  it  would  mean,"  he  cried, 
waving  an  eloquent  hand,  "if  some  rich  man 
Would  start  a  fund  to  equip  a  hundred  or  so 
wagons  like  this  to  go  huckstering  literature 
around  through  the  rural  districts!  It  would 
pay,  too,  once  you  got  started.  Yes,  by  the 
bones  of  Webster!  I  went  to  a  meeting  of 
booksellers  once,  at  some  hotel  in  New  York, 
and  told  'em  about  my  scheme.  They  laughed 
at  me.  But  I've  had  more  fun  toting  books 
around  in  this  Parnassus  than  I  could  have  had 
in  fifty  years  sitting  in  a  bookstore,  or  teaching 
school,  or  preaching.  Life's  full  of  savour 
when  you  go  creaking  along  the  road  like  thi* 


m       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Look  at  to-day,  with  the  sun  and  the  air  and 
the  silver  clouds.  Best  of  all,  though,  I  love 
the  rainy  days.  I  used  to  pull  up  alongside 
the  road,  throw  a  rubber  blanket  over  Peg, 
and  Bock  and  I  would  curl  up  in  the  bunk  and 
smoke  and  read.  I  used  to  read  aloud  to 
Bock:  we  went  through  'Midshipman  Easy* 
together,  and  a  good  deal  of  Shakespeare.  He's 
a  very  bookish  dog.  We've  seen  some  queer 
experiences  in  this  Parnassus." 

The  hill  road  from  Shelby  to  Port  Vigor  is  a 
lonely  one,  as  most  of  the  farmhouses  lie  down 
in  the  valley.  If  I  had  known  better  we  might 
have  taken  the  longer  and  more  populous  way, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  enjoying  the 
wide  view  and  the  solitary  road  lying  white  in 
the  sunshine.  We  jogged  along  very  pleas- 
antly. Once  more  we  stopped  at  a  house  where 
Mifflin  pleaded  for  a  chance  to  exercise  his  art. 
I  was  much  amused  when  he  succeeded  in 
selling  a  copy  of  "Grimm's  Fairy  Tales"  to  a 
shrewish  spinster  on  the  plea  that  she  would 
enjoy  reading  the  stories  to  her  nephews  and 
nieces  who  were  coming  to  visit  her. 

"My!"  he  chuckled,  as  he  gave  me  the  dingy 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       83 

quarter  he  had  extracted.  "There's  nothing 
in  that  book  as  grim  as  she  is!" 

A  little  farther  on  we  halted  by  a  roadside 
spring  to  give  Peg  a  drink,  and  I  suggested 
lunch.  I  had  laid  in  some  bread  and  cheese  in 
Shelby,  and  with  this  and  some  jam  we  made 
excellent  sandwiches.  As  we  were  sitting  by 
the  fence  the  motor  stage  trundled  past  on 
its  way  to  Port  Vigor.  A  little  distance  down 
the  road  it  halted,  and  then  went  on  again.  I 
saw  a  familiar  figure  walking  back  toward  us. 

"Now  I'm  in  for  it,"  I  said  to  the  Professor. 
"Here's  Andrew!" 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  DREW  is  just  as  thin  as  I  am  fat,  and 
his  clothes  hang  on  him  in  the  most  comi- 
cal way.  He  is  very  tall  and  shambling, 
wears  a  ragged  beard  and  a  broad  Stetson  hat, 
and  suffers  amazingly  from  hay  fever  in  the 
autumn.  (In  fact,  his  essay  on  "Hay  Fever"  is 
the  best  thing  he  ever  wrote,  I  think.)  As  he 
came  striding  up  the  road  I  noticed  how  his 
trousers  fluttered  at  the  ankles  as  the  wind  plucked 
at  them.  The  breeze  curled  his  beard  back  under 
his  chin  and  his  face  was  quite  dark  with  anger. 
I  couldn't  help  being  amused;  he  looked  so  funny. 

"The  Sage  looks  like  Bernard  Shaw,"  whis- 
pered Mifflin. 

I  always  believe  in  drawing  first  blood. 

"  Good-morning,  Andrew,"  I  called  cheerfully. 
"Want  to  buy  any  books?"  I  halted  Pegasus, 
and  Andrew  stood  a  little  in  front  of  the  wheel — 
partly  out  of  breath  and  mostly  out  of  temper. 

84 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       85 

"What  on  earth  is  this  nonsense,  Helen?"  he 
said  angrily.  "You've  led  me  the  deuce  of  a 
chase  since  yesterday.  And  who  is  this — this 
person  you're  driving  with?" 

"Andrew,"  I  said,  "y°u  forget  your  manners 
Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Mifflin.     I  have  bought 
his  caravan  and  am  taking  a  holiday,  selling 
books.     Mr.  Mifflin  is  on  his  way  to  Port  Vigor 
where  he  takes  the  train  to  Brooklyn." 

Andrew  stared  at  the  Professor  without 
speaking.  I  could  tell  by  the  blaze  in  his  light- 
blue  eyes  that  he  was  thoroughly  angry,  and  I 
feared  things  would  be  worse  before  they  were 
better.  Andrew  is  slow  to  wrath,  but  a  very 
hard  person  to  deal  with  when  roused.  And  I 
had  some  inkling  by  this  time  of  the  Professor's 
temperament.  Moreover,  I  am  afraid  that  some 
of  my  remarks  had  rather  prejudiced  him  against 
Andrew,  as  a  brother  at  any  rate  and  apart  from 
his  excellent  prose. 

Mifflin  had  the  next  word.  He  had  taken  off 
his  funny  little  cap,  and  his  bare  skull  shone  like 
an  egg.  I  noticed  a  little  sort  of  fairy  ring  of 
tiny  drops  around  his  crown. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Miffiin,  "the  proceedings 


86       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

look  somewhat  unusual,  but  the  facts  are  simple 
to  narrate.  Your  sister  has  bought  this  van  and 
its  contents,  and  I  have  been  instructing  her  in 
my  theories  of  the  dissemination  of  good  books. 
You  as  a  literary  man.  .  .  . 

Andrew  paid  absolutely  no  attention  to  the 
Professor,  and  I  saw  a  slow  flush  tinge  Mifflin's 
sallow  cheek. 

"Look  here,  Helen,"  said  Andrew,  "do  you 
think  I  propose  to  have  my  sister  careering 
around  the  State  with  a  strolling  vagabond? 
Upon  my  soul  you  ought  to  have  better  sense — 
and  at  your  age  and  weight !  I  got  home  yester- 
day and  found  your  ridiculous  note.  I  went  to 
Mrs.  Collins,  and  she  knew  nothing.  I  went  to 
Mason's,  and  found  him  wondering  who  had 
bilked  his  telephone.  I  suppose  you  did  that. 
He  had  seen  this  freight  car  of  yours  and  put  me 
on  the  track.  But  my  God!  I  never  thought 
to  see  a  woman  of  forty  abducted  by  gypsies!" 

Mifflin  was  about  to  speak  but  I  waved  him 
back. 

"Now  see  here,  Andrew,"  I  said,  "you  talk 
too  quickly.  A  woman  of  forty  (you  exagger- 
ate, by  the  way)  who  has  compiled  an  anthology 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       87 

of  6,000  loaves  of  bread  and  dedicated  it  to  you 
deserves  some  courtesy.  When  you  want  to  run 
off  on  some  vagabond  tour  or  other  you  don't 
hesitate  to  do  it.  You  expect  me  to  stay  home 
and  do  the  Lady  Eglantine  in  the  poultry  yard. 
By  the  ghost  of  Susan  B.  Anthony,  I  won't  do  it! 
This  is  the  first  real  holiday  I've  had  in  fifteen 
years,  and  I'm  going  to  suit  myself." 

Andrew's  mouth  opened,  but  I  shook  my  fist 
so  convincingly  that  he  halted. 

"I  bought  this  Parnassus  from  Mr.  Mifflin  fair 
and  square  for  four  hundred  dollars.  That's  the 
price  of  about  thirteen  hundred  dozen  eggs,"  I 
said.  (I  had  worked  this  out  in  my  head  while 
Mifflin  was  talking  about  his  book.) 

"The  money's  mine,  and  I'm  going  to  use  it 
my  own  way.  Now,  Andrew  McGill,  if  you 
want  to  buy  any  books,  you  can  parley 
with  me.  Otherwise,  I'm  on  my  way.  You  can 
expect  me  back  when  you  see  me."  I  handed 
him  one  of  Mifflin's  little  cards,  which  were  in  a 
pocket  at  the  side  of  the  van,  and  gathered  up 
the  reins.  I  was  really  angry,  for  Andrew  had 
been  both  unreasonable  and  insulting. 

Andrew  looked  at  the  card,  and  tore  it  in 


88       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

halves.  He  looked  at  the  side  of  Parnassus 
where  the  fresh  red  lettering  was  still  damp. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "you  must  be 
crazy."  He  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  sneezing — 
a  last  touch  of  hay  fever,  I  suspect,  as  there  was 
still  goldenrod  in  the  meadows.  He  coughed 
and  sneezed  furiously,  which  made  him  madder 
than  ever.  At  last  he  turned  to  Mifflin  who  was 
sitting  bald-headed  with  a  flushed  face  and  very 
bright  eyes.  Andrew  took  him  all  in,  the  shabby 
Norfolk  jacket,  the  bulging  memorandum  book 
in  his  pocket,  the  stuffed  portmanteau  under  his 
foot,  even  the  copy  of  "Happiness  and  Hayseed'* 
which  had  dropped  to  the  floor  and  lay  back  up. 

"Look  here,  you,"  said  Andrew,  "I  don't 
know  by  what  infernal  arts  you  cajoled  my 
sister  away  to  go  vagabonding  in  a  huckster's 
wagon,  but  I  know  this,  that  if  you've  cheated 
her  out  of  her  money  I'll  have  the  law  on  you." 

I  tried  to  insert  a  word  of  protest,  but  mat- 
ters had  gone  too  far.  The  Professor  was  as 
mad  as  Andrew  now. 

"By  the  bones  of  Piers  Plowman,"  he  said,  "I 
had  expected  to  meet  a  man  of  letters  and  the 
author  of  this  book" — he  held  up  "Happiness 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       89 

and  Hayseed" — "but  I  see  I  was  mistaken.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  a  man  who  would  insult  his  sister 
before  a  stranger,  as  you  have  done,  is  an  oaf 
and  a  cad."  He  threw  the  book  over  the  hedge, 
and  before  I  could  say  a  word  he  had  vaulted 
over  the  off  wheel  and  ran  round  behind  the  van. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  he  said,  with  his  little  red 
beard  bristling,  "your  sister  is  over  age  and  act- 
ing of  her  own  free  will.  By  the  bones  of  the 
Baptist,  I  don't  blame  her  for  wanting  a  vaca- 
tion if  this  is  the  way  you  treat  her.  She  is 
nothing  to  me,  sir,  and  I  am  nothing  to  her,  but 
I  propose  to  )>e  a  teacher  to  you.  Put  up  your 
hands  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson!" 

This  was  too  much  for  me.  I  believe  I 
screamed  aloud,  and  started  to  clamber  from  the 
van.  But  before  I  could  do  anything  the  two 
fanatics  had  begun  to  pummel  each  other.  I 
saw  Andrew  swing  savagely  at  Mifflin,  and  Mif- 
flin  hit  him  square  on  the  chin.  Andrew's  hat 
fell  on  the  road.  Peg  stood  placidly,  and  Bock 
made  as  if  to  grab  Andrew's  leg,  but  I  hopped 
out  and  seized  him. 

It  was  certainly  a  weird  sight.  I  suppose  I 
should  have  wrung  my  hands  and  had  hysterics, 


00       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  almost  amused,  it 
was  so  silly.  Thank  goodness  the  road  was 
deserted. 

Andrew  was  a  foot  taller  than  the  Professor, 
but  awkward,  loosely  knit,  and  unmuseular, 
while  the  little  Redbeard  was  wiry  as  a  cat. 
Also  Andrew  was  so  furious  that  he  was  quite 
beside  himself,  and  Mifflin  was  in  the  cold  anger 
that  always  wins.  Andrew  landed  a  couple  of 
flailing  blows  on  the  other  man's  chest  and 
shoulders,  but  in  thirty  seconds  he  got  another 
punch  on  the  chin  followed  by  one  on  the  nose 
that  tumbled  him  over  backward. 

Andrew  sat  in  the  road  fishing  for  a  handker- 
chief, and  Mifflin  stood  glaring  at  him,  but  look- 
ing very  ill  at  ease.  Neither  of  them  said  a 
Word.  Bock  broke  away  from  me  and  capered 
and  danced  about  Mifflin's  feet  as  if  it  were  all  a 
game.  It  was  an  extraordinary  scene. 

Andrew  got  up,  mopping  his  bleeding  nose. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  "I  almost  respect 
you  for  that  punch.  But  by  Jove  I'll  have  the 
law  on  you  for  kidnapping  my  sister.  You're  a 
fine  kind  of  a  pirate." 

Mifflin  said  nothing. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       91 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Andrew,"  I  said.  "Can't 
you  see  that  I  want  a  little  adventure  of  my  own? 
Go  home  and  bake  six  thousand  loaves  of  bread, 
and  by  the  time  they're  done  I'll  be  back  again. 
I  think  two  men  of  your  age  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourselves.  I'm  going  off  to  sell  books." 
And  with  that  I  climbed  up  to  the  seat  and 
clucked  to  Pegasus.  Andrew  and  Mifflin  and 
Bock  remained  standing  in  the  road. 

I  was  mad  all  the  way  through.  I  was  mad  at 
both  men  for  behaving  like  schoolboys.  I  was 
mad  at  Andrew  for  being  so  unreasonable,  yet  in 
a  way  I  admired  him  for  it;  I  was  mad  at  Mifflin 
for  giving  Andrew  a  bloody  nose,  and  yet  I  ap- 
preciated the  spirit  in  which  it  was  done.  I  was 
mad  at  myself  for  causing  all  the  trouble,  and  I 
was  mad  at  Parnassus.  If  there  had  been  a  con- 
venient cliff  handy  I  would  have  pushed  the  old 
thing  over  it.  But  now  I  was  in  for  it,  and  just 
had  to  go  on.  Slowly  I  rolled  up  a  long  grade, 
and  then  saw  Port  Vigor  lying  ahead  and  the 
broad  blue  stretches  of  the  Sound. 

Parnassus  rumbled  on  with  its  pleasant  creak, 
and  the  mellow  sun  and  sweep  of  the  air  soon 
soothed  me.  I  began  to  taste  salt  in  the  wind, 


92       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

and  above  the  meadows  two  or  three  seagulls 
were  circling.  Like  all  women,  my  angry  mood 
melted  into  a  reaction  of  exaggerated  tenderness 
and  I  began  to  praise  both  Andrew  and  Mifflin 
in  my  heart.  How  fine  to  have  a  brother  so 
solicitous  of  his  sister's  welfare  and  reputation! 
And  yet,  how  splendid  the  little,  scrawny  Pro- 
fessor had  been !  How  quick  to  resent  an  insult 
and  how  bold  to  avenge  it!  His  absurd  little 
tweed  cap  was  lying  on  the  seat,  and  I  picked 
it  up  almost  sentimentally.  The  lining  was 
frayed  and  torn.  From  my  suit  case  in  the  van 
I  got  out  a  small  sewing  kit,  and  hanging  the 
reins  on  a  hook  I  began  to  stitch  up  the  rents  as 
Peg  jogged  along.  I  thought  with  amusement 
of  the  quaint  life  Mr.  Mifflin  had  led  in  his 
"caravan  of  culture."  I  imagined  him  ad- 
dressing the  audience  of  Whitman  disciples  in 
Camden,  and  wondered  how  the  fuss  ended.  I 
imagined  him  in  his  beloved  Brooklyn,  strolling 
in  Prospect  Park  and  preaching  to  chance 
comers  his  gospel  of  good  books.  How  different 
was  his  militant  love  of  literature  from  Andrew's 
quiet  satisfaction.  And  yet  how  much  they 
really  had  in  common!  It  tickled  me  to  think 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       93 

of  Mifflin  reading  aloud  from  "Happiness  and 
Hayseed,"  and  praising  it  so  highly,  just  before 
fighting  with  the  author  and  giving  him  a  bloody 
nose.  I  remembered  that  I  should  have  spoken 
to  Andrew  about  feeding  the  hens,  and  reminded 
him  of  his  winter  undergarments.  What  help- 
less creatures  men  are,  after  all! 

I  finished  mending  the  cap  in  high  good 
humour. 

I  had  hardly  laid  it  down  when  I  heard  a 
quick  step  in  the  road  behind  me,  and  looking 
back,  there  was  Mifflin,  striding  along  with  his 
bald  pate  covered  with  little  beads  of  moisture. 
Bock  trotted  sedately  at  his  heels.  I  halted 
teg. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what's  happened  to  An- 
drew?" 

The  Professor  still  looked  a  bit  shamefaced. 
"  The  Sage  is  a  tenacious  person,"  he  said.  "  We 
argued  for  a  bit  without  much  satisfaction.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  we  nearly  came  to  blows  again, 
only  he  got  another  waft  of  goldenrod,  which 
started  him  sneezing,  and  then  his  nose  began 
bleeding  once  more.  He  is  convinced  that  I'm  a 
ruffian,  and  said  so  in  excellent  prose.  Honestly, 


94       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

I  admire  him  a  great  deal.  I  believe  he  in- 
tends to  have  the  law  on  me.  I  gave  him  my 
Brooklyn  address  in  case  he  wants  to  follow  the 
matter  up.  I  think  I  rather  pleased  him  by  ask- 
ing him  to  autograph  'Happiness  and  Hayseed* 
for  me.  I  found  it  lying  in  the  ditch." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  two  are  certainly  a  great 
pair  of  lunatics.  You  both  ought  to  go  on  the 
stage.  You'd  be  as  good  as  Weber  and  Fields. 
Did  he  give  you  the  autograph?" 

He  pulled  the  book  out  of  his  pocket. 
Scrawled  in  it  in  pencil  were  the  words  /  have 
shed  blood  for  Mr.  Miflin.  Andrew  McGill. 

"I  shall  read  the  book  again  with  renewed  in- 
terest," said  Mifflin.  "May  I  get  in?" 

"By  all  means,"  I  said.  "There's  Port 
Vigor  in  front  of  us." 

He  put  on  his  cap,  noticed  that  it  seemed  to 
feel  different,  pulled  it  off  again,  and  then 
looked  at  me  in  a  quaint  embarrassment. 

"You  are  very  good,  Miss  McGill,"  he  said. 

"Where  did  Andrew  go?"  I  asked. 

"He  set  off  for  Shelby  on  foot,"  Mifflin  an- 
swered. "He  has  a  grand  stride  for  walking. 
He  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  left  some 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       95 

potatoes  boiling  on  the  fire  yesterday  afternoon, 
and  said  he  must  get  back  to  attend  to  them. 
He  said  he  hoped  you  would  send  him  a  postal 
card  now  and  then.  Do  you  know,  he  reminds 
me  of  Thoreau  more  than  ever." 

"He  reminds  me  of  a  burnt  cooking  pot,"  I 
said.  "I  suppose  all  my  kitchen  ware  will  be  in 
a  horrible  state  when  I  get  home." 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

PORT  VIGOR  is  a  fascinating  old  town. 
It  is  built  on  a  point  jutting  out  into  the 
Sound.  Dimly  in  the  distance  one  can 
see  the  end  of  Long  Island,  which  Mifflin  viewed 
with  sparkling  eyes.  It  seemed  to  bring  him 
closer  to  Brooklyn.  Several  schooners  were 
beating  along  the  estuary  in  the  fresh  wind,  and 
there  was  a  delicious  tang  of  brine  in  the  ah". 
We  drove  direct  to  the  station  where  the  Pro- 
fessor alighted.  We  took  his  portmanteau,  and 
shut  Bock  inside  the  van  to  prevent  the  dog  from 
following  him.  Then  there  was  an  awkward 
pause  as  he  stood  by  the  wheel  with  his  cap  off. 

"Well,  Miss  McGill,"  he  said,  "there's  an  ex- 
press train  at  five  o'clock,  so  with  luck  I  shall  be 
in  Brooklyn  to-night.  My  brother's  address  is 
600  Abingdon  Avenue,  and  I  hope  when  you're 
sending  a  card  to  the  Sage  you'll  let  me  have  one, 
too.  I  shall  be  very  homesick  for  Parnassus,  but 

96 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       97 

I'd  rather  leave  her  with  you  than  with  any  one 
I  know." 

He  bowed  very  low,  and  before  I  could  say  a 
word  he  blew  his  nose  violently  and  hurried 
away.  I  saw  him  carrying  his  valise  into  the 
station,  and  then  he  disappeared.  I  suppose 
that  living  alone  with  Andrew  for  all  these  years 
has  unused  me  to  the  eccentricities  of  other 
people,  but  surely  this  little  Redbeard  was  one 
of  the  strangest  beings  one  would  be  likely  to 
meet. 

Bock  yowled  dismally  inside,  and  I  did  not 
feel  in  any  mood  to  sell  books  in  Port  Vigor. 
I  drove  back  into  the  town  and  stopped  at  a 
tea  shop  for  a  pot  of  tea  and  some  toast.  When 
I  came  out  I  found  that  quite  a  little  crowd  had 
collected,  partly  owing  to  the  strange  appearance 
of  Parnassus  and  partly  because  of  Bock's 
plaintive  cries  from  within.  Most  of  the  on- 
lookers seemed  to  suspect  the  outfit  of  being 
part  of  a  travelling  menagerie,  so  almost  against 
my  will  I  put  up  the  flaps,  tied  Bock  to  the  tail 
of  the  wagon,  and  began  to  answer  the  humorous 
questions  of  the  crowd.  Two  or  three  bought 
books  without  any  urging,  and  it  was  some  time 


98       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

before  I  could  get  away.  Finally  I  shut  up  the 
van  and  pulled  off,  as  I  was  afraid  of  seeing 
some  one  I  knew.  As  I  turned  into  the  Wood- 
bridge  Road  I  heard  the  whistle  of  the  five 
o'clock  train  to  New  York. 

The  twenty  miles  of  road  between  Sabine 
Farm  and  Port  Vigor  was  all  familiar  to  me,  but 
now  to  my  relief  I  struck  into  a  region  that  I 
had  never  visited.  On  my  occasional  trips  to 
Boston  I  had  always  taken  the  train  at  Port 
Vigor,  so  the  country  roads  were  unknown. 
But  I  had  set  out  on  the  Woodbridge  way  be- 
cause Mifflin  had  spoken  of  a  farmer,  Mr. 
Pratt,  who  lived  about  four  miles  out  of  Port 
Vigor,  on  the  Woodbridge  Road.  Apparently 
Mr.  Pratt  had  several  times  bought  books  from 
the  Professor  and  the  latter  had  promised  to 
visit  him  again.  So  I  felt  in  duty  bound  to 
oblige  a  good  customer. 

After  the  varied  adventures  of  the  last  two 
days  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  be  alone  to  think 
things  over.  Here  was  I,  Helen  McGill,  in  a 
queer  case  indeed.  Instead  of  being  home  at 
Sabine  Farm  getting  supper,  I  was  trundling 
along  a  strange  road,  the  sole  owner  of  *>  Par- 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       99 

nassus  (probably  the  only  one  in  existence), 
a  horse,  and  a  dog,  and  a  cartload  of  books  on 
my  hands.  Since  the  morning  of  the  day  before 
my  whole  life  had  twisted  out  of  its  accustomed 
orbit.  I  had  spent  four  hundred  dollars  of  my 
savings;  I  had  sold  about  thirteen  dollars*  worth 
of  books;  I  had  precipitated  a  fight  and  met  a 
philosopher.  Not  only  that,  I  was  dimly  be- 
ginning to  evolve  a  new  philosophy  of  my  own. 
And  all  this  in  order  to  prevent  Andrew  from 
ouying  a  lot  more  books!  At  any  rate,  I  had 
been  successful  in  that.  When  he  had  seen 
Parnassus  at  last,  he  had  hardly  looked  at  her — 
except  in  tones  of  scorn.  I  caught  myself  won- 
dering whether  the  Professor  would  allude  to  the 
incident  in  his  book,  and  hoping  that  he  would 
send  me  a  copy.  But  after  all,  why  should  he 
mention  it?  To  him  it  was  only  one  of  a 
thousand  adventures.  As  he  had  said  angrily 
to  Andrew,  he  was  nothing  to  me,  nor  I  to  him. 
How  could  he  realize  that  this  was  the  first 
adventure  I  had  had  in  the  fifteen  years  I  had 
been — what  was  it  he  called  it? — compiling  my 
anthology.  Well,  the  funny  little  gingersnap! 
I  kept  Bock  tied  to  the  back  of  the  van,  as  I 


100     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

was  afraid  he  might  take  a  notion  to  go  in  search 
of  his  master.  As  we  jogged  on,  and  the  falling 
sun  cast  a  level  light  across  the  way,  I  got  a  bit 
lonely.  This  solitary  vagabonding  business 
was  a  bit  sudden  after  fifteen  years  of  home  life. 
The  road  lay  close  to  the  water  and  I  watched 
the  Sound  grow  a  deeper  blue  and  then  a  dull 
purple.  I  could  hear  the  surf  pounding,  and 
on  the  end  of  Long  Island  a  far-away  lighthouse 
showed  a  ruby  spark.  I  thought  of  the  little 
gingersnap  roaring  toward  New  York  on  the 
express,  and  wondered  whether  he  was  travelling 
in  a  Pullman  or  a  day  coach.  A  Pullman  chair 
would  feel  easy  after  that  hard  Parnassus  seat. 

By  and  by  we  neared  a  farmhouse  which  I 
took  to  be  Mr.  Pratt's.  It  stood  close  to  the 
road,  with  a  big,  red  barn  behind  and  a  gilt 
weathervane  representing  a  galloping  horse. 
Curiously  enough  Peg  seemed  to  recognize  the 
place,  for  she  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  neighed 
vigorously.  It  must  have  been  a  favourite 
stopping  place  for  the  Professor. 

Through  a  lighted  window  I  could  see  people 
sitting  around  a  table.  Evidently  the  Pratts 
were  at  supper.  I  drew  up  in  the  yard.  Some 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     101 

one  looked  out  of  a  window,  and  I  heard  a  girl's 
voice : 

"Why,  Pa,  here's  Parnassus!" 
Gingersnap  must  have  been  a  welcome  visitor 
at  that  farm,  for  in  an  instant  the  whole  family 
turned  out  with  a  great  scraping  of  chairs  and 
clatter  of  dishes.  A  tall,  sunburnt  man,  in  a 
clean  shirt  with  no  collar,  led  the  group,  and 
then  came  a  stout  woman  about  my  own  build, 
and  a  hired  man  and  three  children. 

"Good  evening!"  I  said.    "Is  this  Mr.  Pratt?" 

"Sure  thing!"  said  he.  "Where's  the  Per- 
fessor?" 

"On  his  way  to  Brooklyn,"  said  I.  "And 
I've  got  Parnassus.  He  told  me  to  be  sure  to 
call  on  you.  So  here  we  are." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know!"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Pratt.  "Think  of  Parnassus  turned  suffrage! 
Ben,  you  put  up  the  critters,  and  I'll  take  Mrs. 
Mifflin  in  to  supper." 

"Hold  on  there,"  I  said.  "My  name's 
McGill — Miss  McGill.  See,  it's  painted  on  the 
wagon.  I  bought  the  outfit  from  Mr.  Mifflin. 
A  business  proposition  entirely." 

"WeH,  well,"  said  Mr.  Pratt.  "We're  glad  to 


102     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

see  any  friend  of  the  Perfessor.  Sorry  he's  not 
here,  too.  Come  right  in  and  have  a  bite  with  us." 

They  were  certainly  good-hearted  folk,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ben  Pratt.  He  put  Peg  and  Bock 
away  in  the  barn  and  gave  them  their  supper, 
while  Mrs.  Pratt  took  me  up  to  her  spare  bed- 
room and  brought  me  a  jug  of  hot  water.  Then 
they  all  trooped  back  into  the  dining-room  and 
the  meal  began  again.  I  am  a  connoisseur  of 
farm  cooking,  I  guess,  and  I've  got  to  hand  it  to 
Beulah  Pratt  that  she  was  an  A-l  housewife. 
Her  hot  biscuit  was  perfect;  the  coffee  was  real 
Mocha,  simmered,  not  boiled;  the  cold  sausage 
and  potato  salad  was  as  good  as  any  Andrew 
ever  got.  And  she  had  a  smoking-hot  omelet 
sent  in  for  me,  and  opened  a  pot  of  her  own 
strawberry  preserve.  The  children  (two  boys 
and  a  girl)  sat  open-mouthed,  nudging  one 
another,  and  Mr.  Pratt  got  out  his  pipe  while 
I  finished  up  on  stewed  pears  and  cream  and 
chocolate  cake.  It  was  a  regular  meal.  I 
wondered  what  Andrew  was  eating  and  whether 
he  had  found  the  nest  behind  the  wood  pile 
where  the  red  hen  always  drops  her  eggs. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Pratt,  'Hell  us  about 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     103 

the  Perf essor.  We  was  expectin'  him  here  some 
time  this  fall.  He  generally  gets  here  around 
cider  time." 

"I  guess  there  isn't  so  much  to  tell,"  I  said. 
"He  stopped  up  at  our  place  the  other  day,  and 
said  he  wanted  to  sell  his  outfit.  So  I  bought 
him  out.  He  was  pining  to  get  back  to  Brook- 
lyn and  write  a  book." 

"That  book  o'  his!"  said  Mrs.  Pratt.  "He 
was  always  talkin'  on  it,  but  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  started  it  yet." 

"Whereabout  do  you  come  from,  Miss  Mc- 
Gill?"  said  Pratt.  I  could  see  he  was  mighty 
puzzled  at  a  woman  driving  a  vanload  of  books 
around  the  country,  alone. 

"Over  toward  Redfield,"  I  said. 

"You  any  kin  to  that  writer  that  lives  up 
that  way?" 

"  You  mean  Andrew  McGill?  "  I  said.  "  He's 
my  brother." 

"  Do  tell ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pratt.  "  Why  the 
Perfessor  thought  a  terrible  lot  of  him.  He 
read  us  all  to  sleep  with  one  of  his  books  one 
night.  Said  he  was  the  best  literature  in  this 
State,  I  do  believe." 


104     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

I  smiled  to  myself  as  I  thought  of  the  set-to 
on  the  road  from  Shelby. 

"Well,"  said  Pratt,  "if  the  Perfessor's  got  any 
better  friends  than  us  in  these  parts,  I'm  glad 
to  meet  'em.  He  come  here  first  time  'bout 
four  years  ago.  I  was  up  working  in  the  hay- 
field  that  afternoon,  and  I  heard  a  shout  down 
by  the  mill  pond.  I  looked  over  that  way  and 
saw  a  couple  o'  kids  waving  their  arms  and 
screamin'.  I  ran  down  the  hill  and  there  was 
the  Perfessor  just  a  pullin'  my  boy  Dick  out  o' 
the  water.  Dick's  this  one  over  here." 

Dick,  a  small  boy  of  thirteen  or  so,  grew  red 
under  his  freckles. 

"The  kids  had  been  foolin'  around  on  a  raft 
there,  an'  first  thing  you  know  Dick  fell  in, 
right  into  deep  water,  over  by  the  dam.  Couldn't 
swim  a  stroke,  neither.  And  the  Perfessor,, 
who  jest  happened  to  be  comin'  along  in  that 
'bus  of  his,  heard  the  boys  yell.  Didn't  he 
hop  out  o'  the  wagon  as  spry  as  a  chimpanzee, 
skin  over  the  fence,  an'  jump  into  the  pond, 
swim  out  there  an'  tow  the  boy  in!  Yes, 
ma  'am,  he  saved  that  boy's  life  then  an'  no 
mistake.  That  man  can  read  me  to  sleep  witb 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     105 

poetry  any  night  he  has  a  mind  to.  He's  a 
plumb  fine  little  firecracker,  the  Perfessor." 

Farmer  Pratt  pulled  hard  on  his  pipe.  Evi- 
dently his  friendship  for  the  wandering  book- 
seller was  one  of  the  realities  of  his  life. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  went  on,  "that  Perfessor 
has  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  sure  enough.  We 
brought  him  an'  the  boy  back  to  the  house. 
The  boy  had  gone  down  three  times  an'  the 
Perfessor  had  to  dive  to  find  him.  They  were 
both  purty  well  all  in,  an'  I  tell  you  I  was  scared. 
But  we  got  Dick  around  somehow — rolled  him 
on  a  sugar  bar'l,  an'  poured  whiskey  in  him, 
an '  worked  his  arms,  an'  put  him  in. hot  blankets. 
By  and  by  he  come  to.  An'  then  I  found  that 
the  Perfessor,  gettin'  over  the  barb-wire  fence 
so  quick  (when  he  lit  for  the  pond)  had  torn  a 
hole  in  his  leg  you  could  put  four  fingers  in. 
There  was  his  trouser  all  stiff  with  blood,  an* 
he  not  sayin'  a  thing.  Pluckiest  little  runt  in 
three  States,  by  Judas !  Well,  we  put  him  to  bed , 
too,  and  then  the  Missus  keeled  over,  an'  we  put 
her  to  bed.  Three  of  them,  by  time  the  Doc  got 
here.  Great  old  summer  afternoon  that  was! 
But  bless  your  heart,  we  couldn't  keep  the  Per- 


106     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

fessor  abed  long.  Next  day  he  was  out  lookin* 
fer  his  poetry  books,  an5  first  thing  you  know 
he  had  us  all  rounded  up  an'  was  preachin'  good 
literature  at  us  like  any  evangelist.  I  guess  we 
all  fell  asleep  over  his  poetry,  so  then  he  started 
on  readin'  that  'Treasure  Island'  story  to  us, 
wasn't  it,  Mother?  By  hickory,  we  none  of  us 
fell  asleep  over  that.  He  started  the  kids 
readin'  so  they  been  at  it  ever  since,  and  Dick's 
top  boy  at  school  now.  Teacher  says  she  never 
saw  such  a  boy  for  readin'.  That's  what  Per* 
fessor  done  for  us!  Well,  tell  us  'bout  yerseli 
Miss  McGill.  Is  there  any  good  books  we 
ought  to  read?  I  used  to  pine  for  some  o'  that 
feller  Shakespeare  my  father  used  to  talk  about 
so  much,  but  Perfessor  always  'lowed  it  was 
over  my  head!" 

It  gave  me  quite  a  thrill  to  hear  all  this  about 
Mifflin.  I  could  readily  imagine  the  masterful 
little  man  captivating  the  simple-hearted  Pratts 
with  his  eloquence  and  earnestness.  And  the 
story  of  the  mill  pond  had  its  meaning,  too. 
Little  Redbeard  was  no  mere  wandering  crank — - 
he  was  a  real  man,  cool  and  steady  of  brain, 
with  the  earmarks  of  a  hero.  I  felt  a  sudden 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     107 

gush  of  warmth  as  I  recalled  his  comical 
ways. 

Mrs.  Pratt  lit  a  fire  in  her  Franklin  stove  and 
I  racked  my  head  wondering  how  I  could  tread 
worthily  in  the  Professor's  footsteps.  Finally 
I  fetched  the  "Jungle  Book"  from  Parnassus 
and  read  them  the  story  of  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. 
There  was  a  long  pause  when  I  had  finished. 

"Say,  Pa,"  said  Dick  shyly,  "that  mongoose 
was  rather  like  Professor,  wasn't  he!" 

Plainly  the  Professor  was  the  traditional  hero 
of  this  family,  and  I  began  to  feel  rather  like  an 
imposter! 

I  suppose  it  was  foolish  of  me,  but  I  had  al- 
ready made  up  my  mind  to  push  on  to  Wood- 
bridge  that  night.  It  could  not  be  more  than 
four  miles,  and  the  time  was  not  much  after 
eight.  I  felt  a  little  twinge  of  quite  unworthy 
annoyance  because  I  was  still  treading  in  the 
glamour  of  the  Professor's  influence.  The  Pratts 
would  talk  of  nothing  else,  and  I  wanted  to  get 
somewhere  where  I  would  be  estimated  at  my 
own  value,  not  merely  as  his  disciple.  "Darn 
the  Redbeard,"  I  said  to  myself,  "I  think  he  has 
bewitched  these  people  *"  And  in  spite  of  their 


108     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

protests  and  invitations  to  stay  the  night,  I  in- 
sisted on  having  Peg  hitched  up.  I  gave  them 
the  copy  of  the  "Jungle  Book"  as  a  small  return 
for  their  hospitality,  and  finally  sold  Mr.  Pratt 
a  little  copy  of  "Lamb's  Tales  from  Shake- 
speare" which  I  thought  he  could  read  without 
brain  fever.  Then  I  lit  my  lantern  and  after 
a  chorus  of  good-byes  Parnassus  rolled  away. 
"Well,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  turned  into  the 
high  road  once  more,  "drat  the  gingersnap, 
he  seems  to  hypnotize  everybody  .  .  . 
hsj  must  be  nearly  in  Brooklyn  by  this  time!" 

It  was  very  quiet  along  the  road,  also  very 
dark,  for  the  sky  had  clouded  over  and  I  could 
see  neither  moon  nor  stars.  As  it  was  a  direct 
road  I  should  have  hald  no  difficulty,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  must  have  fallen  into  a  doze  during  which 
Peg  took  a  wrong  turning.  At  any  rate,  I 
realized  about  half-past  nine  that  Parnassus 
was  on  a  much  rougher  road  than  the  highway 
had  any  right  to  be,  and  there  were  no  telephone 
poles  to  be  seen.  I  knew  that  they  stretched 
all  along  the  main  road,  so  plainly  I  had  made 
a  mistake.  I  was  reluctant  for  a  moment  to 
admit  that  I  could  be  wrong,  and  just  then  Peg 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     109 

stumbled  heavily  and  stood  still.  She  paid  no 
heed  to  my  exhortations,  and  when  I  got  out 
and  carried  my  lantern  to  see  whether  anything 
was  in  the  way,  I  found  that  she  had  cast  a  shoe 
and  her  foot  was  bleeding.  The  shoe  must  have 
dropped  off  some  way  back  and  she  had  picked 
up  a  nail  or  something  in  the  quick.  I  saw  no 
alternative  but  to  stay  where  I  was  for  the  night. 

This  was  not  very  pleasant,  but  the  adven- 
tures of  the  day  had  put  me  into  a  stoical  frame 
of  mind,  and  I  saw  no  good  in  repining.  I  un- 
hitched Peg,  sponged  her  foot,  and  tied  her  to  a 
tree.  I  would  have  made  more  careful  explora- 
tions to  determine  just  where  I  was,  but  a  sharp 
patter  of  rain  began  to  fall.  So  I  climbed  into 
my  Parnassus,  took  Bock  in  with  me,  and  lit  the 
swinging  lamp.  By  this  time  it  was  nearly 
ten  o'clock.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  turn 
in,  so  I  took  off  my  boots  and  lay  down  in  the 
bunk.  Bock  lay  quite  comfortably  on  the  floor 
of  the  van.  I  meant  to  read  for  a  while,  and  so 
did  not  turn  out  the  light,  but  I  fell  asleep  almost 
immediately. 

I  woke  up  at  half -past  eleven  and  turned  out 
the  lamp,  which  had  made  the  van  very  warm* 


110     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

I  opened  the  little  windows  front  and  back,  and 
would  have  opened  the  door,  but  I  feared  Bock 
might  slip  away.  It  was  still  raining  a  little. 
To  my  annoyance  I  felt  very  wakeful.  I  lay 
for  some  time  listening  to  the  patter  of  raindrops 
on  the  roof  and  skylight — a  very  snug  sound 
when  one  is  warm  and  safe.  Every  now  and 
then  I  could  hear  Peg  stamping  in  the  under- 
brush. I  was  almost  dozing  off  again  when 
Bock  gave  a  low  growl. 

No  woman  of  my  bulk  has  a  right  to  be 
nervous,  I  guess,  but  instantly  my  security 
vanished!  The  patter  of  the  rain  seemed  men- 
acing, and  I  imagined  a  hundred  horrors.  I  was 
totally  alone  and  unarmed,  and  Bock  was  not  a 
large  dog.  He  growled  again,  and  I  felt  worse 
than  before.  I  imagined  that  I  heard  stealthy 
sounds  in  the  bushes,  and  once  Peg  snorted  as 
though  frightened.  I  put  my  hand  down  to  pat 
Bock,  and  found  that  his  neck  was  all  bristly, 
like  a  fighting  cock.  He  uttered  a  queer  half 
growl,  half  whine,  which  gave  me  a  chill.  Some 
one  must  be  prowling  about  the  van,  but  in  the 
falling  rain  I  could  hear  nothing. 

I  felt  I  must  do  something.     I  was  afraid  t0 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     111 

call  out  lest  I  betray  the  fact  that  there  was  only 
a  woman  in  the  van.  My  expedient  was  absurd 
enough,  but  at  any  rate  it  satisfied  my  desire 
to  act.  I  seized  one  of  my  boots  and  banged 
vigorously  on  the  floor,  at  the  same  time  growl- 
ing in  as  deep  and  masculine  a  voice  as  I  could 
muster:  "What  the  helVs  the  matter?  What 
the  hell's  the  matter?"  This  sounds  silly 
enough,  I  dare  say,  but  it  afforded  me  some 
relief.  And  as  Bock  shortly  ceased  growling, 
it  apparently  served  some  purpose. 

I  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  tingling  all 
over  with  nervousness.  Then  I  began  to  grow 
calmer,  and  was  getting  drowsy  almost  in  spite 
of  myself  when  I  was  aroused  by  the  unmistak- 
able sound  of  Bock's  tail  thumping  on  the  floor 
— a  sure  sign  of  pleasure.  This  puzzled  me 
quite  as  much  as  his  growls.  I  did  not  dare 
strike  a  light,  but  could  hear  him  sniffing  at  the 
door  of  the  van  and  whining  with  eagerness. 
This  seemed  very  uncanny,  and  again  I  crept 
stealthily  out  of  the  bunk  and  pounded  on  the 
floor  lustily,  this  time  with  the  frying  pan, 
which  made  an  unearthly  din.  Peg  neighed 
and  snorted,  and  Bock  began  to  bark.  Even 


112     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

in  my  anxiety  I  almost  laughed.  "It  sounds 
like  an  insane  asylum,"  I  thought,  and  reflected 
that  probably  the  disturbance  was  only  caused 
by  some  small  animal.  Perhaps  a  rabbit  or  a 
skunk  which  Bock  had  winded  and  wanted  to 
chase.  I  patted  him,  and  crawled  into  my  bunk 
once  more. 

But  my  real  excitement  was  still  to  come. 
About  half  an  hour  later  I  heard  unmistakable 
footsteps  alongside  the  van.  Bock  growled 
furiously,  and  I  lay  in  a  panic.  Something 
jarred  one  of  the  wheels.  Then  broke  out  a 
most  extraordinary  racket.  I  heard  quick 
steps,  Peg  whinneyed,  and  something  fell  heav- 
ily against  the  back  of  the  wagon.  There  was  a 
violent  scuffle  on  the  ground,  the  sound  of  blows, 
and  rapid  breathing.  With  my  heart  jumping 
I  peered  out  of  one  of  the  back  windows.  There 
was  barely  any  light,  but  dimly  I  could  see  a 
tumbling  mass  which  squirmed  and  writhed  on 
the  ground.  Something  struck  one  of  the  rear 
wheels  so  that  Parnassus  trembled.  I  heard 
hoarse  swearing,  and  then  the  whole  body,  what- 
ever it  was,  rolled  off  into  the  underbrush. 
There  was  a  terrific  crashing  and  snapping  of 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     113 

twigs .  Bock  whined,  growled,  and  pawed  madly 
at  the  door.  And  then  complete  silence. 

My  nerves  were  quite  shattered  by  this  time. 
I  don't  think  I  had  been  so  frightened  since 
childhood  days  when  I  awakened  from  a  night- 
mare. Little  trickles  of  fear  crept  up  and  down 
my  spine  and  my  scalp  prickled.  I  pulled  Bock 
on  the  bunk,  and  lay  with  one  hand  on  his 
collar.  He,  too,  seemed  agitated  and  sniffed 
gingerly  now  and  then.  Finally,  however,  he 
gave  a  sigh  and  fell  asleep.  I  judged  it  might 
have  been  two  o'clock,  but  I  did  not  like  to 
strike  a  light.  And  at  last  I  fell  into  a  doze. 

When  I  woke  the  sun  was  shining  brilliantly 
and  the  air  was  full  of  the  chirping  of  birds.  I 
felt  stiff  and  uneasy  from  sleeping  in  my  clothes, 
and  my  foot  was  numb  from  Bock's  weight. 

I  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Par- 
nassus was  standing  in  a  narrow  lane  by  a  grove 
of  birch  trees.  The  ground  was  muddy,  and 
smeared  with  footprints  behind  the  van.  I 
opened  the  door  and  looked  around.  The  first 
thing  I  saw,  on  the  ground  by  one  of  the  wheels, 
Was  a  battered  tweed  cap. 


CHAPTER    NINE 

MY  FEELINGS  were  as  mixed  as  a 
crushed  nut  sundae.  So  the  Professor 
hadn't  gone  to  Brooklyn  after  all! 
What  did  he  mean  by  prowling  after  me  like  a 
sleuth?  Was  it  just  homesickness  for  Parnas- 
sus? Not  likely!  And  then  the  horrible  noises 
I  had  heard  in  the  night;  had  some  tramp  been 
hanging  about  the  van  in  the  hope  of  robbing 
m«?  Had  the  tramp  attacked  Mifflin?  Or 
had  Mifflin  attacked  the  tramp?  Who  had  got 
the  better  of  it? 

I  picked  up  the  muddy  cap  and  threw  it  into 
the  van.  Anyway,  I  had  problems  of  my  own 
to  tackle,  and  those  of  the  Professor  could  wait. 

Peg  whinneyed  when  she  saw  me.  I  exam- 
ined her  foot.  Seeing  it  by  daylight  the  trouble 
was  not  hard  to  diagnose.  Along,  jagged 
piece  of  slate  was  wedged  in  the  frog  of  the 
foot.  I  easily  wrenched  it  out,  heated  some 

114 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     115 

water,  and  gave  the  hoof  another  sponging. 
It  would  be  all  right  when  shod  once  more. 
But  where  was  the  shoe? 

I  gave  the  horse  some  oats,  cooked  an  egg  and 
a  cup  of  coffee  for  myself  at  the  little  kerosene 
stove,  and  broke  up  a  dog  biscuit  for  Bock.  I 
marvelled  once  more  at  the  completeness  of 
Parnassus's  furnishings.  Bock  helped  me  to 
scour  the  pan.  He  sniffed  eagerly  at  the  cap 
when  I  showed  it  to  him,  and  wagged  his  tail. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  only  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  leave  Parnassus  and  the  animals 
where  they  were  and  retrace  my  steps  as  far 
as  the  Pratt  farm.  Undoubtedly  Mr.  Pratt 
would  be  glad  to  sell  me  a  horse-shoe  and  send 
his  hired  man  to  do  the  job  for  me.  I  could 
not  drive  Peg  as  she  was,  with  a  sore  foot  and 
without  a  shoe.  I  judged  Parnassus  would  be 
quite  safe:  the  lane  seemed  to  be  a  lonely  one 
leading  to  a  deserted  quarry.  I  tied  Bock  to  the 
steps  to  act  as  a  guard,  took  my  purse  and  the 
Professor's  cap  with  me,  locked  the  door  of  the 
van,  and  set  off  along  the  back  track.  Bock 
whined  and  tugged  violently  when  he  saw  me 
disappearing,  but  I  could  see  no  other  course. 


116     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

The  lane  rejoined  the  main  road  about  half  a 
mile  back.  I  must  have  been  asleep  or  I  could 
never  have  made  the  mistake  of  turning  off.  I 
don't  see  why  Peg  should  have  made  the  turn, 
unless  her  foot  hurt  and  she  judged  the  side  track 
would  be  a  good  place  to  rest.  She  must  have 
been  well  used  to  stopping  overnight  in  the  open. 

I  strode  along  pondering  over  my  adventures, 
and  resolved  to  buy  a  pistol  when  I  got  to  Wood- 
bridge.  I  remember  thinking  that  I  could 
write  quite  a  book  now  myself.  Already  I  began 
to  feel  quite  a  hardened  pioneer.  It  doesn't 
take  an  adaptable  person  long  to  accustom  one's 
self  to  a  new  way  of  life,  and  the  humdrum  rou- 
tine of  the  farm  certainly  looked  prosy  compared 
to  voyaging  with  Parnassus.  When  I  had  got 
beyond  Woodbridge,  and  had  crossed  the  river, 
I  would  begin  to  sell  books  in  earnest.  Also 
I  would  buy  a  notebook  and  jot  down  my  ex- 
periences. I  had  heard  of  bookselling  as  a  pro- 
fession for  women,  but  I  thought  that  my  taste 
of  it  was  probably  unique.  I  might  even  write 
a  book  that  would  rival  Andrew's — yes,  and 
Mifflin's.  And  that  broiight  my  thoughts  to 
Barbarossa  again- 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     117 

Of  all  extraordinary  people,  I  thought,  he 
certainly  takes  the  cake — and  then,  rounding  a 
bend,  I  saw  him  sitting  on  a  rail  fence,  with  his 
head  shining  in  the  sunlight.  My  heart  gave  a 
sort  of  jump.  I  do  believe  I  was  getting  fond 
of  the  Professor.  He  was  examining  something 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"You'll  get  sunstroke,"  I  said.  "Here's 
your  cap."  And  I  pulled  it  out  of  my  pocket 
and  tossed  it  to  him. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  as  cool  as  you  please. 
"And  here's  your  horse-shoe.  Fair  exchange!" 

I  burst  out  laughing,  and  he  looked  discon- 
certed, as  I  hoped  he  would. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  in  Brooklyn  by  now,"  I 
said,  "at  600  Abingdon  Avenue,  laying  out 
Chapter  One.  What  do  you  mean  by  following 
me  this  way?  You  nearly  frightened  me  to 
death  last  night.  I  felt  like  one  of  Fenimore 
Cooper's  heroines,  shut  up  in  the  blockhouse 
while  the  redskins  prowled  about." 

He  flushed  and  looked  very  uncomfortable. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said.  "I  cer- 
tainly never  intended  that  you  should  see  me. 
I  bought  a  ticket  for  New  York  and  checked  my 


118     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

bag  through.  And  then  while  I  was  waiting 
for  the  train  it  came  over  me  that  your  brother 
was  right,  and  that  it  was  a  darned  risky  thing 
for  you  to  go  jaunting  about  alone  in  Parnassus. 
I  was  afraid  something  might  happen.  I  fol- 
lowed along  the  road  behind  you,  keeping  well 
out  of  sight." 

"Where  were  you  while  I  was  at  Pratt 's?" 

"Sitting  not  far  down  the  road  eating  bread 
and  cheese,"  he  said.  "Also  I  wrote  a  poem,  a 
thing  I  very  rarely  do." 

"Well,  I  hope  your  ears  burned,"  I  said,  "for 
those  Pratts  have  certainly  raised  you  to  the 
peerage." 

He  got  more  uncomfortable  than  ever. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  dare  say  it  was  all  an 
error,  but  anyway  I  did  follow  you.  When 
you  turned  off  into  that  lane,  I  kept  pretty 
close  behind  you.  As  it  happens,  I  know  this 
bit  of  country,  and  there  are  very  often  some 
hoboes  hanging  around  the  old  quarry  up  that 
lane.  They  have  a  cave  there  where  they  go 
into  winter  quarters.  I  was  afraid  some  of 
them  might  bother  you.  You  could  hardly 
have  chosen  a  worse  place  to  camp  out.  By 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     119 

the  bones  of  George  Eliot,  Pratt  ought  to  have 
warned  you.  I  can't  conceive  why  you  didn't 
stop  at  his  house  overnight  anyway." 

"If  you  must  know,  I  got  weary  of  hearing 
them  sing  your  praises." 

I  could  see  that  he  was  beginning  to  get  net- 
tled. 

"I  regret  having  alarmed  you,"  he  said. 
"I  see  that  Peg  has  dropped  a  shoe.  If  you'll 
let  me  fix  it  for  you,  after  that  I  won't  bother 
you." 

We  turned  back  again  along  the  road,  and  I 
noticed  the  right  side  of  his  face  for  the  first 
time.  Under  the  ear  was  a  large  livid  bruise. 

"That  hobo,  or  whoever  he  was,"  I  said, 
"must  have  been  a  better  fighter  than  Andrew. 
I  see  he  landed  on  your  cheek.  Are  you  always 
fighting?" 

His  annoyance  disappeared.  Apparently  the 
Professor  enjoyed  a  fight  almost  as  much  as 
he  did  a  good  book. 

"Please  don't  regard  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  as  typical  of  me,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle. 
"I  am  so  unused  to  being  a  squire  of  dames  that 
perhaps  I  take  the  responsibilities  too  seriously." 


120     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Did  you  sleep  at  all  last  night?"  I  asked* 
I  think  I  began  to  realize  for  the  first  time  that 
the  gallant  little  creature  had  been  out  all  night 
in  a  drizzling  rain,  simply  to  guard  me  from 
possible  annoyance;  and  I  had  been  unforgiv- 
ably churlish  about  it. 

"I  found  a  very  fine  haystack  in  a  field  over- 
looking the  quarry.  I  crawled  into  the  middle 
of  it.  A  haystack  is  sometimes  more  comfort- 
able than  a  boarding-house." 

"Well,"  I  said  penitently,  "I  can  never  for- 
give myself  for  the  trouble  I've  caused  you.  It 
was  awfully  good  of  you  to  do  what  you  did. 
Please  put  your  cap  on  and  don't  catch  cold." 

We  walked  for  several  minutes  in  silence.  I 
watched  him  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  I 
was  afraid  he  might  have  caught  his  death  of 
cold  from  being  out  all  night  in  the  wet,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  scuffle  he  had  had  with  the 
tramp;  but  he  really  looked  as  chipper  as  ever. 

"How  do  you  like  the  wild  life  of  a  book- 
seller?" he  said.  "You  must  read  George 
Borrow.  He  would  have  enjoyed  Parnassus.'* 

"I  was  just  thinking,  when  I  met  you,  that  I 
could  write  a  book  about  my  adventures." 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     121 

"Good!"  he  said.      "We  might  collaborate." 

"There's  another  thing  we  might  collabo- 
rate on,"  I  said,  "and  that's  breakfast.  I'm 
sure  you  haven't  had  any." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I  have.  I 
never  lie  when  I  know  I  shan't  be  believed." 

"  I  haven't  had  any,  either,"  I  said.  I  thought 
that  to  tell  an  untruth  would  be  the  least  thing 
I  could  do  to  reward  the  little  man  for  his  un- 
selfishness. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  really  thought  that  by 
this  time " 

He  broke  off.  "Was  that  Bock  barking?" 
he  asked  sharply. 

We  had  been  walking  slowly,  and  had  not 
yet  reached  the  spot  where  the  lane  branched 
from  the  main  road.  We  were  still  about 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  place  where  I 
had  camped  overnight.  We  both  listened  care- 
fully, but  I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  singing 
of  the  telephone  wires  along  the  road. 

"No  matter,"  he  said.  "I  thought  I  heard  a 
dog."  But  I  noticed  that  he  quickened  his  pace. 

"I  was  saying,"  he  continued,  "that  I  had 
really  thought  to  have  lost  Parnassus  for  good  by 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

this  morning,  but  I'm  tickled  to  death  to  have  a 
chance  to  see  her  again.  I  hope  she'll  be  as  good 
a  friend  to  you  as  she  has  been  to  me.  I  suppose 
you'll  sell  her  when  you  return  to  the  Sage?" 

"I  don't  know  I'm  sure,"  I  said.  "I  must 
confess  I'm  still  a  little  at  sea.  My  desire  for 
an  adventure  seems  to  have  let  me  in  deeper 
than  I  expected.  I  begin  to  see  that  there's 
more  in  this  bookselling  game  than  I  thought* 
Honestly,  it's  getting  into  my  blood." 

"Well,  that's  fine,"  he  said  heartily.  "1 
couldn't  have  left  Parnassus  in  better  hands. 
You  must  let  me  know  what  you  do  with  her, 
and  then  perhaps,  when  I've  finished  my  book, 
I  can  buy  her  back." 

We  struck  off  into  the  lane.  The  ground  was 
slippery  under  the  trees  and  we  went  single 
file,  Mifflin  in  front.  I  looked  at  my  watch — it 
was  nine  o'clock,  just  an  hour  since  I  had  left  the 
van.  As  we  neared  the  spot  Mifflin  kept  looking 
ahead  through  the  birch  trees  in  a  queer  way. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  said.  "We're  al- 
most there,  aren't  we?" 

"  We  are  there,"  he  said.     "  Here's  the  place/5 

Parnassus  was  gone! 


CHAPTER    TEN 

WE  STOOD  in  complete  dismay— I  did, 
at  any  rate — for  about  as  long  as  it 
takes  to  peel  a  potato.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  in  which  direction  the  van  had 
moved,  for  the  track  of  the  wheels  was  plain. 
It  had  gone  farther  up  the  lane  toward  the 
quarry.  In  the  earth,  which  was  still  soggy, 
were  a  number  of  footprints. 

"By  the  bones  of  Poly  carp!"  exclaimed  the 
Professor,  "those  hoboes  have  stolen  the  van. 
I  guess  they  think  it'll  make  a  fine  Pullman 
sleeper  for  them.  If  I'd  realized  there  was 
more  than  one  of  them  I'd  have  hung  around 
closer.  They  need  a  lesson." 

Good  Lord!  I  thought,  here's  Don  Quixote 
about  to  wade  into  another  fight. 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  back  and  get  Mr. 
Pratt?  "I  asked. 

This  was  obviously  the  wrong  thing  to  say. 

123 


124     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

It  put  the  fiery  little  man  all  the  more  on  his 
mettle.  His  beard  bristled.  "Nothing  of  the 
sort!"  he  said.  "Those  fellows  are  cowards 
and  vagabonds  anyway.  They  can't  be  far 
off;  you  haven't  been  away  more  than  an  hour, 
have  you?  If  they've  done  anything  to  Bock, 
by  the  bones  of  Chaucer,  I'll  harry  them.  I 
thought  I  heard  him  bark." 

He  hurried  up  the  lane,  and  I  followed  in 
a  panicky  frame  of  mind.  The  track  wound 
along  a  hillside,  between  a  high  bank  and  a 
forest  of  birch  trees.  I  think  the  distance 
can't  have  been  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
Anyway,  in  a  very  few  minutes  the  road  made  a 
sharp  twist  to  the  right  and  we  found  ourselves 
looking  down  into  the  quarry,  over  a  sheer 
rocky  drop  of  a  hundred  feet  at  least.  Below, 
drawn  over  to  one  side  of  the  wall  of  rock,  stood 
Parnassus.  Peg  was  between  the  shafts.  Bock 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Sitting  by  the  van 
were  three  disreputable  looking  men.  The 
smoke  of  a  cooking  fire  rose  into  the  air;  evi- 
dently they  were  making  free  with  my  little 
larder. 

"Keep    back,"    said    the    Professor    softly. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS      125 

"Don't  let  them  see  us."  He  flattened  himself 
in  the  grass  and  crawled  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
I  did  the  same,  and  we  lay  there,  invisible 
from  below,  but  quite  able  to  see  everything  in 
the  quarry.  The  three  tramps  were  evidently 
enjoying  an  excellent  breakfast. 

"This  place  is  a  regular  hang-out  for  these 
fellows,"  Mifflin  whispered.  "I've  seen  hoboes 
about  here  every  year.  They  go  into  winter 
quarters  about  the  end  of  October,  usually. 
There's  an  old  blasted-out  section  of  this  quarry 
that  makes  a  sheltered  dormitory  for  them,  and 
as  the  place  isn't  worked  any  more  they're  not 
disturbed  here  so  long  as  they  don't  make 
mischief  in  the  neighbourhood.  We'll  give 
them.  .  .  ." 

"Hands  up!"  said  a  rough  voice  behind  us. 
I  looked  round.  There  was  a  fat,  red-faced 
villainous-looking  creature  covering  us  with  a 
shiny  revolver.  It  was  an  awkward  situation. 
Both  the  Professor  and  I  were  lying  full  length 
on  the  ground.  We  were  quite  helpless. 

"Get  up!"  said  the  tramp  in  a  husky,  nasty 
voice.  "I  guess  youse  thought  we  wasn't 
covering  our  trail?  Well,  we'll  have  to  tie 


126       PAKNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

you  up,  I  reckon,  while  we  get  away  with 
this  Crystal  Pallis  of  yourn." 

I  scrambled  to  my  feet,  but  to  my  surprise 
the  Professor  continued  to  lie  at  full  length. 

"Get  up,  deacon!"  said  the  tramp  again. 
"Get  up  on  them  graceful  limbs,  if  you  please." 

I  guess  he  thought  himself  safe  from  attack 
by  a  woman.  At  any  rate,  he  bent  over  as  if  to 
grab  Mifflin  by  the  neck.  I  saw  my  chance 
and  jumped  on  him  from  behind.  I  am  heavy, 
as  I  have  said,  and  he  sprawled  on  the  ground. 
My  doubts  as  to  the  pistol  being  loaded  were 
promptly  dissolved,  for  it  went  off  like  a  cannon. 
Nobody  was  in  front  of  it,  however,  and  Mifflin 
was  on  his  feet  like  a  flash.  He  had  the  ruffian 
by  the  throat  and  kicked  the  weapon  out  of 
his  hand.  I  ran  to  seize  it. 

"You  son  of  Satan!"  said  the  valiant  Red- 
beard.  "Thought  you  could  bully  us,  did 
you?  Miss  McGill,  you  were  as  quick  as  Joan 
of  Arc.  Hand  me  the  pistol,  please." 

I  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  shoved  it  under  the 
hobo's  nose. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "take  off  that  rag  around 
your  neck." 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     127 

The  rag  was  an  old  red  handkerchief,  incon- 
ceivably soiled.  The  tramp  removed  it,  grum- 
bling and  whining.  Mifflin  gave  me  the  pistol 
to  hold  while  he  tied  our  prisoner's  wrists  to- 
gether. In  the  meantime  we  heard  a  shout 
from  the  quarry.  The  three  vagabonds  were 
gazing  up  in  great  excitement. 

"You  tell  those  fashion  plates  down  there," 
said  Mifflin,  as  he  knotted  the  tramp's  hands 
together,  "that  if  they  make  any  fight  I'll  shoot 
them  like  crows."  His  voice  was  cold  and  sav- 
age and  he  seemed  quite  master  of  the  situa- 
tion, but  I  must  confess  I  wondered  how  we 
could  handle  four  of  them. 

The  greasy  ruffian  shouted  down  to  his  pals 
in  the  quarry,  but  I  did  not  hear  what  he  said, 
as  just  then  the  Professor  asked  me  to  keep 
our  captive  covered  while  he  got  a  stick.  I 
stood  with  the  pistol  pointed  at  his  head  while 
Mifflin  ran  back  into  the  birchwood  to  cut  a 
cudgel. 

The  tramp's  face  became  the  colour  of  the 
under  side  of  a  fried  egg  as  he  looked  into  the 
muzzle  of  his  own  gun. 

"Say,  lady,"  he  pleaded,  "that  gun  goes  off 


128     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

awful  easy,  point  her  somewhere  else  or  you'll 
croak  me  by  mistake." 

I  thought  a  good  scare  wouldn't  do  him  any 
harm  and  kept  the  barrel  steadily  on  him. 

The  rascals  down  below  seemed  debating 
what  to  do.  I  don't  know  whether  they  were 
armed  or  not;  but  probably  they  imagined  that 
there  were  more  than  two  of  us.  At  all  events, 
by  the  time  Mifflin  came  back  with  a  stout  birch 
staff  they  were  hustling  out  of  the  quarry  on 
the  lower  side.  The  Professor  swore,  and  looked 
as  if  he  would  gladly  give  chase,  but  he  re- 
frained. 

"Here,  you,"  he  said  in  crisp  tones  to  the 
tramp,  "march  on  ahead  of  us,  down  to  the 
quarry." 

The  fat  ruffian  shambled  awkwardly  down  the 
trail.  We  had  to  make  quite  a  detour  to  get 
into  thequarry,and  by  the  time  we  reached  there 
the  other  three  tramps  had  got  clean  away. 
I  was  not  sorry,  to  tell  the  truth.  I  thought 
the  Professor  had  had  enough  scrapping  for 
one  twenty-four  hours. 

Peg  whinneyed  loudly  as  she  saw  us  coming, 
but  Bock  was  not  in  sight. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     129 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  dog,  you 
swine?"  said  Mifflin.  "If  you've  hurt  him  I'll 
make  you  pay  with  your  own  hide." 

Our  prisoner  was  completely  cowed.  "No, 
boss,  we  ain't  hurt  the  dog,"  he  fawned.  "We 
tied  him  up  so  he  couldn't  bark,  that's  all. 
He's  in  the  'bus."  And  sure  enough,  by  this 
time  we  could  hear  smothered  yelping  and 
whining  from  Parnassus. 

I  hurried  to  open  the  door,  and  there  was 
Bock,  his  jaws  tied  together  with  a  rope-end. 
He  bounded  out  and  made  super-canine  efforts 
to  express  his  joy  at  seeing  the  Professor  again. 
He  paid  very  little  attention  to  me. 

"Well,"  said  Mifflin,  after  freeing  the  dog's 
muzzle,  and  with  difficulty  restraining  him  from 
burying  his  teeth  in  the  tramp's  shin,  "what 
shall  we  do  with  this  heroic  specimen  of  man- 
hood? Shall  we  cart  him  over  to  the  jail  in 
Port  Vigor,  or  shall  we  let  him  go?" 

The  tramp  burst  into  a  whining  appeal  that 
was  almost  funny,  it  was  so  abject.  The  Pro- 
fessor cut  it  short. 

"I  ought  to  pack  you  into  quod,"  he  said. 
"Are  you  the  Phoebus  Apollo  I  scuffled  with 


130       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

down  the  lane  last  night?  Was  it  you  skulking 
around  this  wagon  then?" 

"No,  boss,  that  was  Splitlip  Sam,  honest  to 
Gawd  it  was.  He  come  back,  boss;  said  he'd 
been  fightin'  with  a  cat-o'-mountain!  Say, 
boss,  you  sure  hit  him  hard.  One  of  his  lamps 
is  a  pudding !  Boss,  I'll  swear  I  ain't  had  nothin' 
to  do  with  it." 

"I  don't  like  your  society,"  said  the  Professor, 
"and  I'm  going  to  turn  you  loose.  I'm  going 
to  count  ten,  and  if  you're  not  out  of  this  quarry 
by  then,  I'll  shoot.  And  if  I  see  you  again  I'll 
skin  you  alive.  Now  get  out!" 

He  cut  the  knotted  handkerchief  in  two. 
The  hobo  needed  no  urging.  He  spun  on  his 
heel  and  fled  like  a  rabbit.  The  Professor 
watched  him  go,  and  as  the  fat,  ungainly  figure 
burst  through  a  hedge  and  disappeared  he  fired 
the  revolver  into  the  air  to  frighten  him  still 
more.  Then  he  tossed  the  weapon  into  the 
pool  near  by. 

"Well,  Miss  McGill,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle, 
"if  you  like  to  undertake  breakfast,  I'll  fix  up 
Peg."  And  he  drew  the  horse-shoe  from  his 
pocket  once  more. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     131 

A  brief  inspection  of  Parnassus  satisfied  me 
that  the  thieves  had  not  had  time  to  do  any 
real  damage.  They  had  got  out  most  of  the 
eatables  and  spread  them  on  a  flat  rock  in  prepa- 
ration for  a  feast;  and  they  had  tracked  a  good 
deal  of  mud  into  the  van;  but  otherwise  I  could 
see  nothing  amiss.  So  while  Mifflin  busied 
himself  with  Peg's  foot  it  was  easy  for  me  to  get 
a  meal  under  way.  I  found  a  gush  of  clean 
water  trickling  down  the  face  of  the  rock. 
There  were  still  some  eggs  and  bread  and 
cheese  in  the  little  cupboard,  and  an  unopened 
tin  of  condensed  milk.  I  gave  Peg  her  nose 
bag  of  oats,  and  fed  Bock  who  was  frisking 
about  in  high  spirits.  By  that  time  the  shoeing 
was  done,  and  the  Professor  and  I  sat  down  to  an 
improvised  meal.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  as 
if  this  gipsy  existence  were  the  normal  course  of 
my  life. 

"Well,  Professor,"  I  said,  as  I  handed  him  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  plate  of  scrambled  eggs  and 
cheese,  "for  a  man  who  slept  in  a  wet  haystack, 
you  acquit  yourself  with  excellent  valour." 

"Old  Parnassus  is  quite  a  stormy  petrel," 
he  said.  "I  used  to  think  the  chief  difficulty 


132       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

in  writing  a  book  would  be  to  invent  things  to 
happen,  but  if  I  were  to  sit  down  and  write  the 
adventures  I'd  had  with  her  it  would  be  a  regu- 
lar Odyssey." 

"How  about  Peg's  foot?"  I  asked.  "Can 
she  travel  on  it?" 

"It'll  be  all  right  if  you  go  easy.  I've 
scraped  out  the  injured  part  and  put  the  shoe 
back.  I  keep  a  little  kit  of  tools  under  the  van 
for  emergencies  of  all  sorts." 

It  was  chilly,  and  we  didn't  dawdle  over  our 
meal.  I  only  made  a  feint  of  eating,  as  I  had 
had  a  little  breakfast  before,  and  also  as  the 
events  of  the  last  few  hours  had  left  me  rather 
restless.  I  wanted  to  get  Parnassus  out  on  the 
highway  again,  to  jog  along  in  the  sun  and 
think  things  over.  The  quarry  was  a  desolate, 
forbidding  place  anyway.  But  before  we  left 
we  explored  the  cave  where  the  tramps  had  been 
preparing  to  make  themselves  comfortable  for 
the  winter.  It  was  not  really  a  cave,  but  only 
a  shaft  into  the  granite  cliff.  A  screen  of  ever- 
green boughs  protected  the  opening  against  the 
weather,  and  inside  were  piles  of  sacking  that 
had  evidently  been  used  as  beds,  and  many  old 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     133 

grocery  boxes  for  tables  and  chairs.  It  amused 
me  to  notice  a  cracked  fragment  of  mirror  bal- 
anced on  a  corner  of  rock.  Even  these  raga- 
muffins apparently  were  not  totally  uncon- 
scious of  personal  appearance.  I  seized  the 
opportunity,  while  the  Professor  was  giving 
Peg's  foot  a  final  look,  to  rearrange  my  hair, 
which  was  emphatically  a  sight.  I  hardly 
think  Andrew  would  have  recognized  me  that 
morning. 

We  led  Peg  up  the  steep  incline,  back  into 
the  lane  where  I  had  strayed,  and  at  length  we 
reached  the  main  road  again.  Here  I  began  to 
lay  down  the  law  to  Redbeard. 

"Now  look  here,  Professor,"  I  said,  "I'm 
not  going  to  have  you  tramp  all  the  way  back 
to  Port  Vigor.  After  the  night  you've  had  you 
need  a  rest.  You  just  climb  into  that  Parnassus 
and  lie  down  for  a  good  snooze.  I'll  drive  you 
into  Woodbridge  and  you  can  take  your  train 
there.  Now  you  get  right  into  that  bunk.  I'll 
sit  out  here  and  drive." 

He  demurred,  but  without  much  emphasis. 
I  think  the  little  fool  was  just  about  fagged  out, 
and  no  wonder.  I  was  a  trifle  groggy  myself. 


134     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

In  the  end  he  was  quite  docile.  He  climbed 
into  the  van,  took  off  his  boots,  and  lay  down 
under  a  blanket.  Bock  followed  him,  and  I 
thinkithey  both  fell  asleep  on  the  instant.  I  got 
on  the  front  seat  and  took  the  reins.  I  didn't 
let  Peg  go  more  quickly  than  a  walk  as  I  wanted 
to  spare  her  sore  foot. 

My,  what  a  morning  that  was  after  the  rain! 
The  road  ran  pretty  close  to  the  shore,  and  every 
now  and  then  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
water.  The  air  was  keen — not  just  the  or- 
dinary, unnoticed  air  that  we  breathe  in  and 
out  and  don't  think  about,  but  a  sharp  and 
tingling  essence,  as  strong  in  the  nostrils  as 
camphor  or  ammonia.  The  sun  seemed  fo- 
cussed  upon  Parnassus,  and  we  moved  along 
the  white  road  hi  a  flush  of  golden  light.  The 
flat  fronds  of  the  cedars  swayed  gently  in  the 
salty  air,  and  for  the  first  time  in  ten  years,  I 
should  think,  I  began  amusing  myself  by  se- 
lecting words  to  describe  the  goodnass  of  the 
morning.  I  even  imagined  myself  writing  a 
description  of  it,  as  if  I  were  Andrew  or  Tho- 
reau.  The  crazy  little  Professor  had  inoculated 
me  with  his  literary  bug,  I  guess. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     135 

And  then  I  did  a  dishonourable  thing.  Just 
by  chance  I  put  my  hand  into  fhe  little  pocket 
beside  the  seat  where  Mifflin  kept  a  few  odds  and 
ends.  I  meant  to  have  another  look  at  that 
card  of  his  with  the  poem  on  it.  And  there  I 
found  a  funny,  battered  little  notebook,  evi- 
dently forgotten.  On  the  cover  was  written, 
in  ink,  "Thoughts  on  the  Present  Discontents." 
That  title  seemed  vaguely  familiar.  I  seemed 
to  recall  something  of  the  kind  from  my  school 
days — more  than  twenty  years  ago,  goodness  me! 
Of  course  if  I  had  been  honourable  I  wouldn't 
have  looked  into  it.  But  in  a  kind  of  quibbling 
self -justification  I  recalled  that  I  had  bought 
Parnassus  and  all  it  contained,  "lock,  stock, 
barrel  and  bung"  as  Andrew  used  to  say.  And 
so.  ... 

The  notebook  was  full  of  little  jottings,  writ- 
ten in  pencil  in  the  Professor's  small,  precise 
hand.  The  words  were  rubbed  and  soiled,  but 
plainly  legible.  I  read  this: 

I  don't  suppose  Bock  or  Peg  get  lonely,  but  by 
the  bones  of  Ben  Gunn,  I  do.  Seems  silly  when 
Herrick  and  Hans  Andersen  and  Tennyson  and 


136       PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Thoreau  and  a  wJwle  wagonload  of  other  good 
fellows  are  riding  at  my  back.  I  can  hear  them  all 
talking  as  we  trundle  along.  But  books  aren't  a 
substantial  world  after  all,  and  every  now  and  the\^ 
we  get  hungry  for  some  closer,  more  human  rela- 
tionships. I've  been  totally  alone  now  for  eight 
years — except  for  Runt,  and  he  might  be  dead  and 
never  say  so.  This  wandering  about  is  fine  in  its 
way,  but  it  must  come  to  an  end  some  day.  A  man 
needs  to  put  down  a  root  somewhere  to  be  really 
happy. 

What  absurd  victims  of  contrary  desires  we  are  ! 
If  a  man  is  settled  in  one  place  he  yearns  to  wan- 
der; when  he  wanders  he  yearns  to  Jiave  a  home. 
And  yet  Jww  bestial  is  content — all  the  great  things 
in  life  are  done  by  discontented  people. 

TJiere  are  three  ingredients  in  the  good  life: 
learning,  earning,  and  yearning.  A  man  should 
be  learning  as  he  goes;  and  he  should  be  earning 
bread  for  himself  and  others;  and  he  should  be 
yearning,  too:  yearning  to  know  the  unknowable. 

What  a  fine  old  poem  is  "The  Pulley"  by 
George  Herbert  I  Those  Elizabethan  fellows  knew 
how  to  write  I  They  were  marred  perhaps  by 
their  idea  that  poems  must  be  "witty."  (Remem' 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     137 

ber  how  Bacon  said  thai  reading  poets  makes  one 
witty  ?  There  he  gave  a  clue  to  the  literature  of 
his  time.)  Their  fantastic  puns  and  conceits  are 
rather  out  of  our  fashion  nowadays.  But  Lord  ! 
the  root  of  the  matter  was  in  them  !  How  gattantly, 
how  reverently,  they  tackle  the  problems  of  life  I 

When  God  at  first  made  man  (says  George 
Herbert)  he  had  a  "  glass  of  blessings  standing  by" 
So  He  pours  on  man  all  the  blessings  in  His  reser- 
voir: strength,  beauty,  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure — 
and  then  He  refrains  from  giving  him  the  last  of 
them,  which  is  rest.,  i.  e.,  contentment.  God  sees 
that  if  man  is  contented  he  will  never  win  his  way 
to  Him.  Let  man  be  restless,  so  that 

"If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  My  breast." 

Some  day  I  shaU  write  a  novel  on  that  theme, 
and  call  it  "  The  Pulley."  In  this  tragic,  restless 
world  there  must  be  some  place  where  at  last  we 
can  lay  our  heads  and  be  at  rest.  Some  people 
call  it  death.  Some  call  it  God. 

My  ideal  of  a  man  is  not  the  Omar  who  wants 
to  shatter  into  bits  this  sorry  scheme  of  things,  and 


188     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

then  remould  it  nearer  to  ike  heart9 s  desire.  Old 
Omar  was  a  coward,  with  his  silk  pajamas  and 
his  glass  of  wine.  The  real  man  is  George  Her- 
bert's "seasoned  timber" — the  fellow  who  does 
handily  and  well  whatever  comes  to  him.  Even 
if  it's  only  shovelling  coal  into  a  furnace  he  can 
balance  the  shovel  neatly,  swing  the  coal  square  on 
the  fire  and  not  spill  it  on  the  floor.  If  it's  only 
splitting  kindling  or  running  a  trolley  car  he  can 
make  a  good,  artistic  job  of  it.  If  it's  only  writing 
a  book  or  peeling  potatoes  he  can  put  into  it  the 
best  he  has.  Even  if  he's  only  a  bald-headed  old 
fool  over  forty  selling  books  on  a  country  road,  he  can 
make  an  ideal  of  it.  Good  old  Parnassus  I  It's 
a  great  game.  .  .  .  I  think  I'll  have  to  give 
her  up  soon,  though:  I  must  get  that  book  of  mine 
written.  But  Parnassus  has  been  a  true  glass  of 
blessings  to  me. 

There  was  much  more  in  the  notebook;  in- 
deed it  was  half  full  of  jotted  paragraphs,  mem- 
oranda, and  scraps  of  writing — poems  I  believe 
some  of  them  were — but  I  had  seen  enough. 
It  seemed  as  If  I  had  stumbled  unawares  on 
the  pathetic,  brave,  and  lonely  heart  of  the 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     139 

little  man.  I'm  a  commonplace  creature,  I'm 
afraid,  insensible  to  many  of  the  deeper  things 
in  life,  but  every  now  and  then,  like  all  of  us, 
I  come  face  to  face  with  something  that  thrills 
me.  I  saw  how  this  little,  red-bearded  pedlar 
was  like  a  cake  of  yeast  in  the  big,  heavy  dough 
of  humanity:  how  he  travelled  about  trying  to 
fulfil  in  his  own  way  his  ideals  of  beauty.  I  felt 
almost  motherly  toward  him:  I  wanted  to  tell 
him  that  I  understood  him.  And  in  a  way  I  felt 
ashamed  of  having  run  away  from  my  own 
homely  tasks,  my  kitchen  and  my  hen  yard  and 
dear  old,  hot-tempered,  absent-minded  Andrew. 
I  fell  into  a  sober  mood.  As  soon  as  I  was  alone, 
I  thought,  I  would  sell  Parnassus  and  hurry  back 
to  the  farm.  That  was  my  job,  that  was  my 
glass  of  blessings.  What  was  I  doing — a  fat, 
middle-aged  woman — trapesing  along  the  roads 
with  a  cartload  of  books  I  didn't  understand? 

I  slipped  the  little  notebook  back  into  its 
hiding-place.  I  would  have  died  rather  than 
let  the  Professor  know  I  had  seen  it. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

WE  WERE  coming  into  Woodbridge; 
and  I  was  just  wondering  whether 
to  wake  the  Professor  when  the  little 
window  behind  me  slid  back  and  he  stuck  his 
head  out. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "I  think  I  must  have  been 
asleep!" 

"Well,  I  should  hope  so,"  I  said.  "You 
needed  it." 

Indeed  he  looked  much  better,  and  I  was  re- 
lieved  to  see  it.  I  had  been  really  afraid  he 
would  be  ill  after  sleeping  out  all  night,  but  J 
guess  he  was  tougher  than  I  thought.  He  joined 
me  on  the  seat,  and  we  drove  into  the  town. 
While  he  went  to  the  station  to  ask  about  the 
trains  I  had  a  fine  time  selling  books.  I  was 
away  from  the  locality  where  I  was  known,  and 
had  no  shyness  in  attempting  to  imitate  Mifflin's 
methods.  I  even  went  him  one  better  by  going 

140 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS      141 

into  a  hardware  store  where  I  bought  a  large 
dinner  bell.  This  I  rang  lustily  until  a  crowd 
gathered,  then  I  put  up  the  flaps  and  displayed 
my  books.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  sold  only  one, 
but  I  enjoyed  myself  none  the  less. 

By  and  by  Mifflin  reappeared.  I  think  he 
had  been  to  a  barber:  at  any  rate  he  looked  very 
spry:  he  had  bought  a  clean  collar  and  a  flowing 
tie  of  a  bright  electric  blue  which  really  suited 
him  rather  well. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "the  Sage  is  going  to  get 
back  at  me  for  that  punch  on  the  nose!  I've 
been  to  the  bank  to  cash  your  check.  They 
telephoned  over  to  Redfield,  and  apparently 
your  brother  has  stopped  payment  on  it.  It's 
rather  awkward:  they  seem  to  think  I'm  a  crook." 

I  was  furious.  What  right  had  Andrew  to  do 
that? 

"The  brute!"  I  said.  "What  on  earth  shall 
I  do?" 

"I  suggest  that  you  telephone  to  the  Redfield 
Bank,"  he  said,  "and  countermand  your 
brother's  instructions — that  is,  unless  you  think 
you've  made  a  mistake?  I  don't  want  to  take 
advantage  of  you/' 


142     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  let 
Andrew  spoil  my  holiday.  That's  always  his 
way:  if  he  gets  an  idea  into  his  head  he's  like  a 
mule.  I'll  telephone  to  Redfield,  and  then  we'll 
go  to  see  the  bank  here." 

We  put  Parnassus  up  at  the  hotel,  and  I  went 
to  the  telephone.  I  was  thoroughly  angry  at 
Andrew,  and  tried  to  get  him  on  the  wire  first. 
But  Sabine  Farm  didn't  answer.  Then  I 
telephoned  to  the  bank  in  Redfield,  and  got 
Mr.  Shirley.  He's  the  cashier,  and  I  know  him 
well.  I  guess  he  recognized  my  voice,  for  he  made 
no  objection  when  I  told  >Mm  what  Iwanted. 

"Now  you  telephone  to  the  bank  in  Wood- 
bridge,"  I  said,  "and  tell  them  to  let  Mr. 
Mifflin  have  the  money.  I'll  go  there  with  him 
to  identify  him.  Will  that  be  all  right?  " 

"Perfectly,"  he  said.  The  deceitful  little 
snail!  If  I  had  only  known  what  he  was  con- 
cocting! 

Mifflin  said  there  was  a  train  at  three  o'clock 
which  he  could  take.  We  stopped  at  a  little  lunch 
room  for  a  bite  to  eat,  then  he  went  again  to  the 
bank,  and  I  with  him.  We  asked  the  cashier 
whether  they  had  had  a  message  from  Redfield. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     143 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "We've  just  heard."  And 
he  looked  at  me  rather  queerly. 

"Are  you  Miss  McGill?"  he  said. 

"I  am,"  I  said. 

"Will  you  just  step  this  way  a  moment?"  he 
asked  politely. 

He  led  me  into  a  little  sitting-room  and  asked 
me  to  sit  down.  I  supposed  that  he  was  going 
to  get  some  paper  for  me  to  sign,  so  I  waited 
quite  patiently  for  several  minutes.  I  had  left 
the  Professor  at  the  cashier's  window,  where 
they  would  give  him  his  money. 

I  waited  some  time,  and  finally  I  got  tired  of 
looking  at  the  Life  Insurance  calendars.  Then 
I  happened  to  glance  out  of  the  window.  Surely 
that  was  the  Professor,  just  disappearing  round 
the  corner  with  another  man? 

I  returned  to  the  cashier's  desk. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  said.  "Your  ma- 
hogany furniture  is  charming,  but  I'm  tired 
of  it.  Do  I  have  to  sit  here  any  longer? 
And  where's  Mr.  Mifflin?  Did  he  get  his 
money?" 

The  cashier  was  a  horrid  little  c»eature  with 
side  whiskers. 


144     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"I'm  sorry  you  had  to  wait,  Madam,"  he 
said.  "The  transaction  is  just  concluded, 
We  gave  Mr.  Mifflin  what  was  due  him.  There 
is  no  need  for  you  to  stay  longer." 

I  thought  this  was  very  extraordinary. 
Surely  the  Professor  would  not  leave  without 
saying  good-bye?  However,  I  noticed  that 
the  clock  said  three  minutes  to  three,  so  I 
thought  that  perhaps  he  had  had  to  run  to 
catch  his  train.  He  was  such  a  strange  little 
man,  anyway.  .  .  . 

Well,  I  went  back  to  the  hotel,  quite  a  little 
upset  by  this  sudden  parting.  At  least  I  was 
glad  the  little  man  had  got  his  money  all  right. 
Probably  he  would  write  from  Brooklyn,  but 
of  course  I  wouldn't  get  the  letter  till  I  returned 
to  the  farm  as  that  was  the  only  address  he 
would  have.  Perhaps  that  wouldn't  be  so  long 
after  all:  but  I  did  not  feel  like  going  back  now, 
when  Andrew  had  been  so  horrid. 

I  drove  Parnassus  on  the  ferry,  and  we 
crossed  the  river.  I  felt  lost  and  disagreeable. 
Even  the  fresh  movement  through  the  air  gave 
me  no  pleasure.  Bock  whined  dismally  inside 
the  van. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     145 

It  didn't  take  me  long  to  discover  that  Par- 
nassing  all  alone  had  lost  some  of  its  charms. 
I  missed  the  Professor:  missed  his  abrupt, 
direct  way  of  saying  things,  and  his  whimsical 
wit.  And  I  was  annoyed  by  his  skipping  off 
without  a  word  of  good-bye.  It  didn't  seem 
natural.  I  partially  appeased  my  irritation 
by  stopping  at  a  farmhouse  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river  and  selling  a  cook  book.  Then  I 
started  along  the  road  for  Bath — about  five 
miles  farther  on.  Peg's  foot  didn't  seem  to 
bother  her  so  I  thought  it  would  be  safe  to 
travel  that  far  before  stopping  for  the  night. 
Counting  up  the  days  (with  some  difficulty: 
it  seemed  as  though  I  had  been  away  from  home 
a  month),  I  remembered  that  this  was  Saturday 
night.  I  thought  I  would  stay  in  Bath  over 
Sunday  and  get  a  good  rest.  We  jogged  se- 
dately along  the  road,  and  I  got  out  a  copy  of 
Vanity  Fair.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  Becky 
Sharp  that  I  wouldn't  even  interrupt  myself 
to  sell  books  at  the  houses  we  passed.  I  think 
reading  a  good  book  makes  one  modest.  When 
you  see  the  marvellous  insight  into  human  na- 
ture which  a  truly  great  book  shows,  it  is  bound 


146     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

to  make  you  feel  small — like  looking  at  th% 
Dipper  on  a  clear  night,  or  seeing  the  winter 
sunrise  when  you  go  out  to  collect  the  morning 
eggs.  And  anything  that  makes  you  feel 
small  is  mighty  good  for  you. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  great  book?"  said 
the  Professor — I  mean,  I  imagined  him  saying  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  see  him  sitting 
there,  with  his  corncob  pipe  in  his  hand  and  that 
quizzical  little  face  of  his  looking  sharply  at  me. 
Somehow,  talking  with  the  Professor  had  made 
me  think.  He  was  as  good  as  one  of  those 
Scranton  correspondence  courses,  I  do  believe, 
and  no  money  to  pay  for  postage. 

Well,  I  said  to  the  Professor — to  myself  I 
mean — let's  see:  what  is  a  good  book?  I  don't 
mean  books  like  Henry  James's  (he's  Andrew's 
great  idol.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  a  kind  of  rush  of  words  to  the  head  and 
never  stopped  to  sort  them  out  properly).  A 
good  book  ought  to  have  something  simple 
about  it.  And,  like  Eve,  it  ought  to  come  from 
somewhere  near  the  third  rib:  there  ought  to 
be  a  heart  beating  in  it.  A  story  that's  all 
forehead  doesn't  amount  to  much.  Anyway, 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     147 

it'll  never  get  over  at  a  Dorcas  meeting.  That 
was  the  trouble  with  Henry  James.  Andrew 
talked  so  much  about  him  that  I  took  one  of  his 
books  to  read  aloud  at  our  sewing  circle  over  at 
Redfield.  Well,  after  one  try  we  had  to  fall 
back  on  "Pollyanna." 

I  haven't  been  doing  chores  and  running  a 
farmhouse  for  fifteen  years  without  getting 
some  ideas  about  life — and  even  about  books. 
I  wouldn't  set  my  lit'ry  views  up  against  yours, 
Professor  (I  was  still  talking  to  Mifflin  in  my 
mind),  no,  nor  even  against  Andrew's — but  as 
I  say,  I've  got  some  ideas  of  my  own.  I've 
learned  that  honest  work  counts  in  writing 
books  just  as  much  as  it  does  in  washing  dishes. 
I  guess  Andrew's  books  must  be  some  good  after 
all  because  he  surely  does  mull  over  them  with- 
out end.  I  can  forgive  his  being  a  shiftless 
farmer  so  long  as  he  really  does  his  literary 
chores  up  to  the  hilt.  A  man  can  be  slack  in 
everything  else,  if  he  does  one  thing  as  well  as  he 
possibly  can.  And  I  guess  it  won't  matter  my 
being  an  ignoramus  in  literature  so  long  as  I'm 
rated  A 1  in  the  kitchen.  That's  what  I  used  to 
think  as  I  polished  and  scoured  and  scrubbed  and 


148     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

dusted  and  swept  and  then  set  about  getting 
dinner.  If  I  ever  sat  down  to  read  for  ten 
minutes  the  cat  would  get  into  the  custard. 
No  woman  in  the  country  sits  down  for  fifteen 
consecutive  minutes  between  sunrise  and  sunset, 
anyway,  unless  she  has  half  a  dozen  servants. 
And  nobody  knows  anything  about  literature 
unless  he  spends  most  of  his  life  sitting  down. 
So  there  you  are. 

The  cultivation  of  philosophic  reflection  was  a 
new  experience  for  me.  Peg  ambled  along  con- 
tentedly and  the  dog  trailed  under  Parnassus 
where  I  had  tied  him.  I  read  Vanity  Fair  and 
thought  about  all  sorts  of  things.  Once  I  got 
out  to  pick  some  scarlet  maple  leaves  that 
attracted  me.  The  motors  passing  annoyed  me 
with  their  dust  and  noise,  but  by  and  by  one 
of  them  stopped,  looked  at  my  outfit  curiously, 
and  then  asked  to  see  some  books.  I  put  up 
the  flaps  for  them  and  we  pulled  off  to  one  side 
of  the  road  and  had  a  good  talk.  They  bought 
two  or  three  books,  too. 

By  the  time  I  neared  Bath  the  hands  of  my 
watch  pointed  to  supper.  I  was  still  a  bit  shy 
of  Mifflin's  scheme  of  stopping  overnight  at 


PARNASSUS    ON     WHEELS     149 

farmhouses,  so  I  thought  I'd  go  right  into  the 
town  and  look  for  a  hotel.  The  next  day  was 
Sunday,  so  it  seemed  reasonable  to  give  the 
horse  a  good  rest  and  stay  in  Bath  two  nights. 
The  Hominy  House  looked  clean  and  old  fash- 
ioned, and  the  name  amused  me,  so  in  I  went. 
It  was  a  kind  of  high-class  boarding-house,  with 
mostly  old  women  around.  It  looked  to  me 
almost  literary  and  Elbert  Hubbardish  com- 
pared to  the  Grand  Central  in  Shelby.  The 
folks  there  stared  at  me  somewhat  suspiciously 
and  I  half  thought  they  were  going  to  say  they 
didn't  take  pedlars;  but  when  I  flashed  a  new 
five-dollar  bill  at  the  desk  I  got  good  service. 
A  five-dollar  bill  is  a  patent  of  nobility  in  New 
England. 

My!  how  I  enjoyed  that  creamed  chicken 
on  toast,  and  buckwheat  cakes  with  syrup! 
After  you  get  used  to  cooking  all  your  own  grub, 
a  meal  off  some  one  else's  stove  is  the  finest  kind 
of  treat.  After  supper  I  was  all  prepared  to  sit 
out  on  the  porch  with  my  sweater  on  and  give  a 
rocking  chair  a  hot  box,  but  then  I  remembered 
that  it  was  up  to  me  to  carry  on  the  traditions 
of  Parnassus.  I  was  there  to  spread  the  gospel 


150     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

of  good  books.  I  got  to  thinking  how  the 
Professor  never  shirked  carrying  on  his  cam- 
paign, and  I  determined  that  I  would  be  worthy 
of  the  cause. 

When  I  think  back  about  the  experience,  it 
seems  pretty  crazy,  but  at  the  time  I  was  filled 
with  a  kind  of  evangelistic  zeal.  I  thought  if  I 
was  going  to  try  to  sell  books  I  might  as  well 
have  some  fun  out  of  it.  Most  of  the  old  ladies 
were  squatting  about  in  the  parlour,  knitting  or 
reading  or  playing  cards.  In  the  smoking-room 
I  could  see  two  dried-up  men.  Mrs.  Hominy, 
the  manager  of  the  place,  was  sitting  at  her  desk 
behind  a  brass  railing,  going  over  accounts  with 
a  quill  pen.  I  thought  that  the  house  probably 
hadn't  had  a  shock  since  Walt  Whitman  wrote 
"Leaves  of  Grass."  In  a  kind  of  do-or-die 
spirit  I  determined  to  give  them  a  rouse. 

In  the  dining-room  I  had  noticed  a  huge  din- 
ner bell  that  stood  behind  the  door.  I  stepped 
in  there,  and  got  it.  Standing  in  the  big  hall 
I  began  ringing  it  as  hard  as  I  could  shake  my 
arm. 

You  might  have  thought  it  was  a  fire  alarm. 
Mrs.  Hominy  dropped  her  pen  in  horror. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     151 

colonial  dames  in  the  parlour  came  to  life  and 
ran  into  the  hall  like  cockroaches.  In  a  minute 
I  had  gathered  quite  a  respectable  audience. 
It  was  up  to  me  to  do  the  spellbinding. 

"Friends,"  I  said  (unconsciously  imitating 
the  Professor's  tricks  of  the  trade,  I  guess), 
"This  bell  which  generally  summons  you  to 
the  groaning  board  now  calls  you  to  a  literary 
repast.  With  the  permission  of  the  manage- 
ment, and  with  apologies  for  disturbing  your 
tranquillity,  I  will  deliver  a  few  remarks  on  the 
value  of  good  books.  I  see  that  several  of  you 
are  fond  of  reading,  so  perhaps  the  topic  will  be 
congenial?" 

They  gazed  at  me  about  as  warmly  as  a  round 
of  walnut  sundaes. 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  I  continued,  "of 
course  you  remember  the  story  of  Abe  Lincoln 
when  he  said,  'if  you  call  a  leg  a  tail,  how  many 
tails  has  a  dog?'  *  Five,' you  answer.  Wrong; 
because,  as  Mr.  Lincoln  said,  calling  a  leg  a 
tail.  ..." 

I  still  think  it  was  a  good  beginning.  But 
that  was  as  far  as  I  got.  Mrs.  Hominy  came 
out  of  her  trance,  hastened  from  the  cage,  and 


152     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

grabbed  my  arm.  She  was  quite  red  with 
anger. 

"Really!  "she  said.  "Well,  really!  ...  I 
must  ask  you  to  continue  this  in  some  other 
place.  We  do  not  allow  commercial  travellers 
in  this  house." 

And  within  fifteen  minutes  they  had  hitched 
up  Peg  and  asked  me  to  move  on.  Indeed  I 
was  so  taken  aback  by  my  own  zeal  that  I 
could  hardly  protest.  In  a  kind  of  daze  I 
found  myself  at  the  Moose  Hotel,  where  they 
assured  me  that  they  catered  to  mercantile 
people.  I  went  straight  to  my  room  and  fell 
asleep  as  soon  as  I  reached  the  straw  mattress,. 

That  was  my  first  and  only  public  speech. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  October 
sixth.  I  well  remember  the  date. 
I  woke  up  as  chipper  as  any  Robert 
W.  Chambers  heroine.  All  my  doubts  and  de- 
pressions of  the  evening  before  had  fled,  and  I 
was  single-heartedly  delighted  with  the  world 
and  everything  hi  it.  The  hotel  was  a  poor 
place,  but  it  would  have  taken  more  than  that 
to  mar  my  composure.  I  had  a  bitterly  cold 
bath  in  a  real  country  tin  tub,  and  then  eggs 
and  pancakes  for  breakfast.  At  the  table  was 
a  drummer  who  sold  lightning  rods,  and  several 
other  travelling  salesmen.  I'm  afraid  my  con- 
versation was  consciously  modelled  along  the 
line  of  what  the  Professor  would  have  said  if 
he  had  been  there,  but  at  any  rate  I  got  along 
swimmingly.  The  travelling  men,  after  a 
moment  or  two  of  embarrassed  diffidence, 
treated  me  quite  as  one  of  themselves  and 

153 


154     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

asked  me  about  my  "line"  with  interest.  I 
described  what  I  was  doing  and  they  all  said 
they  envied  me  my  freedom  to  come  and  go 
independently  of  trams.  We  talked  cheerfully 
for  a  long  time,  and  almost  without  intending 
to,  I  started  preaching  about  books.  In  the 
end  they  insisted  on  my  showing  them  Par- 
nassus. We  all  went  out  to  the  stable,  where 
the  van  was  quartered,  and  they  browsed  over 
the  shelves.  Before  I  knew  it  I  had  sold  five 
dollars'  worth,  although  I  had  decided  not 
to  do  any  business  at  all  on  Sunday.  But  I 
couldn't  refuse  to  sell  them  the  stuff  as  they 
all  seemed  so  keen  on  getting  something  really 
good  to  read.  One  man  kept  on  talking 
about  Harold  Bell  Wright,  but  I  had  to 
admit  that  I  hadn't  heard  of  him.  Evidently 
the  Professor  hadn't  stocked  any  of  his  works. 
I  was  tickled  to  see  that  after  all  little 
Redbeard  didn't^  know  everything  about  litera- 
ture. 

After  that  I  debated  whether  to  go  to  church 
or  to  write  letters.  Finally  I  decided  in  fa- 
vour of  the  letters.  First  I  tackled  Andrew.  I 
wrote: 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     155 

The  Moose  Hotel,  Bath, 

Sunday  morning. 
DEAR  ANDREW: 

It  seems  absurd  to  think  that  it's  only  three 
days  since  I  left  Sabine  Farm.  Honestly,  more 
has  happened  to  me  in  these  three  days  than  in 
three  years  at  home. 

I'm  sorry  that  you  and  Mr.  Mifflin  disagreed  but 
I  quite  understood  your  feelings.  But  I'm  very 
angry  that  you  should  have  tried  to  stop  that  check 
I  gave  him.  It  was  none  of  your  business,  Andrew. 
I  telephoned  Mr.  Shirley  and  made  him  send  word 
to  the  bank  in  Woodbridge  to  give  Mifflin  the 
money.  Mr.  Mifflin  did  not  swindle  me  into  buying 
Parnassus.  I  did  it  of  my  own  free  will.  If  you 
want  to  know  the  truth,  it  was  your  fault !  I  bought 
it  because  I  was  scared  you  would  if  I  didn't.  And 
I  didn't  want  to  be  left  all  alone  on  the  farm  from 
now  till  Thanksgiving  while  you  went  off  on  another 
trip.  So  I  decided  to  do  the  thing  myself.  I 
thought  I'd  see  how  you  would  like  being  left  all 
alone  to  run  the  house.  I  thought  it'd  be  pretty 
nice  for  me  to  get  things  off  my  mind  a  while  and 
have  an  adventure  of  my  own. 

Now,  Andrew,  here  are  some  directions  for  you- 

1.  Don't  forget  to  feed  the  chickens  twice  a 
day,  and  collect  all  the  eggs.  There's  a  nest  behind 
the  wood  pile,  and  some  of  the  Wyandottes  have 
been  laying  under  the  ice  house. 


156     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

2.  Don't   let   Rosie   touch    grandmother's    blue 
china,  because  she'll  break  it  as  sure  as  fate  if  she 
lays  her  big,  thick  Swedish  fingers  on  it. 

3.  Don't  forget  your  warmer  underwear.    The 
nights  are  getting  chilly. 

4.  I  forgot  to  put  the  cover  on  the  sewing  machine. 
Please  do  that  for  me  or  it'll  get  all  dusty. 

5.  Don't  let  the  cat  run  loose  in  the  house  at 
night:  he  always  breaks  something. 

6.  Send  your  socks  and  anything  else  that  needs 
darning  over  to  Mrs.  McNally,  she  can  do  it  for 
you. 

7.  Don't  forget  to  feed  the  pigs. 

8.  Don't  forget  to  mend  the  weathervane  on 
the  barn. 

9.  Don't  forget  to  send  that  barrel  of  apples 
over  to  the  cider  mill  or  you  won't  have  any  cider 
to  drink  when  Mr.  Decameron  comes  up  to  see  us 
later  hi  the  fall. 

10.  Just  to  make  ten  commandments,  I'll  add  one 
more:    You  might  'phone  to  Mrs.  Collins  that  the 
Dorcas  will  have  to  meet  at  some  one  else's  house 
next  week,  because  I  don't  know  just  when  I'll  get 
back.    I  may  be  away  a  fortnight  more.    This  is 
my  first  holiday  in  a  long  time  and  Fm  going  to  chew 
it  before  I  swallow  it. 

The  Professor  (Mr.  Mifflin,  I  mean)  has  gone 
back  to  Brooklyn  to  work  on  his  book.  I'm  sorry 
you  and  he  had  to  mix  it  up  on  the  high  road  like  a 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     157 

couple  of  hooligans.     He's  a  nice  little  man  and 
you'd  like  him  if  you  got  to  know  him. 

I'm  spending  Sunday  in  Bath:  to-morrow  I'm 
going  on  toward  Hastings.     I've  sold  five  dollars' 
worth  of  books  this  morning  even  if  it  is  Sunday. 
Your  affte  sister 

HELEN  McGiLL. 

P.S.  Don't  forget  to  clean  the  separator  after 
using  it,  or  it'll  get  in  a  fearful  state. 

After  writing  to  Andrew  I  thought  I  would 
send  a  message  to  the  Professor.  I  had  already 
written  him  a  long  letter  in  my  mind,  but  some- 
how when  I  began  putting  it  on  paper  a  sort  of 
awkwardness  came  over  me.  I  didn't  know 
just  how  to  begin.  I  thought  how  much 
more  fun  it  would  be  if  he  were  there  himself 
and  I  could  listen  to  him  talk.  And  then, 
while  I  was  writing  the  first  few  sentences, 
some  of  the  drummers  came  back  into  the 
room. 

"  Thought  you'd  like  to  see  a  Sunday  paper,'* 
said  one  of  them. 

I  picked  up  the  newspaper  with  a  word  of 
thanks  and  ran  an  eye  over  the  headlines.  The 
ugly  black  letters  stood  up  before  me,  and 


158     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

heart  gave  a  great  contraction.     I  felt  my  finger- 
tips turn  cold. 

DISASTROUS  WRECK 

ON  THE  SHORE  LINE 

EXPRESS  RUNS  INTO  OPEN  SWITCH 

TEN  LIVES  LOST,  AND 
MORE  THAN  A  SCORE  INJURED 

FAILURE  OF  BLOCK  SIGNALS 

The  letters  seemed  to  stand  up  before  me  as 
large  as  a  Malted  Milk  signboard.  With  a 
shuddering  apprehension  I  read  the  details. 
Apparently  the  express  that  left  Providence  at 
four  o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoon  had  crashed 
into  an  open  siding  near  Willdon  about  six 
o'clock,  and  collided  with  a  string  of  freight 
empties.  The  baggage  car  had  been  demolished 
and  the  smoker  had  turned  over  and  gone  down 
an  embankment.  There  were  ten  men  killed 
.  .  .  my  head  swam.  Was  that  the  train 
the  Professor  had  taken?  Let  me  see.  He  left 
Woodbridge  on  a  local  train  at  three.  He  had 
s*id  the  day  before  that  the  express  left  Port 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     159 

Vigor  at  five.     ...    If  he  had  changed  to 

the  express 

In  a  kind  of  fascinated  horror  my  eye  caught 
the  list  of  the  dead.  I  ran  down  the  names. 
Thank  God,  no,  Mifflin  was  not  among  them. 
Then  I  saw  the  last  entry: 

UNIDENTIFIED  MAN,  MIDDLE-AGED. 

What  if  that  should  be  the  Professor? 

And  I  suddenly  felt  dizzy,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  fainted. 

Thank  goodness,  no  one  else  was  in  the  room. 
The  drummers  had  gone  outside  again,  and  no 
one  heard  me  flop  off  the  chair.  I  came  to  in 
a  moment,  my  heart  whirling  like  a  spinning 
top.  At  first  I  did  not  realize  what  was  wrong. 
Then  my  eye  fell  on  the  newspaper  again. 
Feverishly  I  re-read  the  account,  and  the  names 
of  the  injured,  too,  which  I  had  missed  before. 
Nowhere  was  there  a  name  I  knew.  But  the 
tragic  words  "unidentified  man"  danced  before 
my  eyes.  Oh !  if  it  were  the  Prof essor.  .  .  . 

In  a  wave  the  truth  burst  upon  me.  I  loved 
that  little  man:  I  loved  him,  I  loved  him.  He 
had  brought  something  new  into  my  life,  and 


160     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

his  brave,  quaint  ways  had  warmed  my  fat 
old  heart.  For  the  first  time,  in  an  intolerable 
gush  of  pain,  I  seemed  to  know  that  my  life 
could  never  again  be  endurable  without  him. 
And  now — what  was  I  to  do? 

How  could  I  learn  the  truth?  Certainly  if  he 
had  been  on  the  train,  and  had  escaped  from 
the  wreck  unhurt,  he  would  have  sent  a  message 
to  Sabine  Farm  to  let  me  know.  At  any  rate, 
that  was  a  possibility.  I  rushed  to  the  tele- 
phone to  call  up  Andrew. 

Oh!  the  agonizing  slowness  of  telephone  con- 
nections when  urgent  hurry  is  needed!  My 
voice  shook  as  I  said  "Redfield  158  J"  to  the 
operator.  Throbbing  with  nervousness  I  waited 
to  hear  the  familiar  click  of  the  receiver  at  the 
other  end.  I  could  hear  the  Redfield  switch- 
board receive  the  call,  and  put  in  the  plug  to 
connect  with  our  wire.  In  imagination  I 
could  see  the  telephone  against  the  wall  in  the 
old  hallway  at  Sabine  Farm.  I  could  see  the 
soiled  patch  of  plaster  where  Andrew  rests  his 
elbow  when  he  talks  into  the  'phone,  and  the 
place  where  he  jots  numbers  down  in  pencil 
and  I  rub  them  off  with  bread  crumbs.  I 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     161 

could  see  Andrew  coming  out  of  the  sitting- 
room  to  answer  the  bell.  And  then  the  opera- 
tor said  carelessly,  "Doesn't  answer."  My 
forehead  was  wet  as  I  came  out  of  the  booth. 

I  hope  I  may  never  have  to  re-live  the 
horrors  of  the  next  hour.  In  spite  of  my  bluff 
and  hearty  ways,  in  times  of  trouble  I  am  as 
reticent  as  a  clam.  I  was  determined  to  hide 
my  agony  and  anxiety  from  the  well-meaning 
people  of  the  Moose  Hotel.  I  hurried  to  the 
railway  station  to  send  a  telegram  to  the  Pro- 
fessor's address  in  Brooklyn,  but  found  the 
place  closed.  A  boy  told  me  it  would  not  be 
open  until  the  afternoon.  From  a  drugstore  I 
called  "information"  in  Willdon,  and  finally 
got  connected  with  some  undertaker  to  whom 
the  Willdon  operator  referred  me.  A  horrible, 
condoling  voice  (have  you  ever  talked  to  an 
undertaker  over  the  telephone?)  answered  me 
that  no  one  by  the  name  of  Mifflin  had  been 
among  the  dead,  but  admitted  that  there  was 
one  body  still  unidentified.  He  used  one 
ghastly  word  that  made  me  shudder — unrec- 
ognizable. I  rang  off. 

I  knew  then  for  the  first  time  the  horror  of 


162     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

loneliness.  I  thought  of  the  poor  little  man's 
notebook  that  I  had  seen.  I  thought  of  his 
fearless  and  lovable  ways — of  his  pathetic  little 
tweed  cap,  of  the  missing  button  of  his  jacket,  of 
the  bungling  darns  on  his  frayed  sleeve.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  heaven  could  mean  nothing 
more  than  to  roll  creaking  along  country  roads, 
in  Parnassus,  with  the  Professor  beside  me  on  the 
seat.  What  if  I  had  known  him  only — how  long 
was  it?  He  had  brought  the  splendour  of  an 
ideal  into  my  humdrum  life.  And  now — had  I 
lost  it  forever?  Andrew  and  the  farm  seemed 
faint  and  far  away.  I  was  a  homely  old  woman, 
mortally  lonely  and  helpless.  In  my  perplexity 
I  walked  to  the  outskirts  of  the  village  and  burst 
into  tears. 

Finally  I  got  a  grip  on  myself  again.  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  now  admitted  frankly 
what  I  had  been  hiding  from  myself.  I  was  in 
love — in  love  with  a  little,  red-bearded  book- 
seller who  seemed  to  me  more  splendid  than  Sir 
Galahad.  And  I  vowed  that  if  he  would  have 
me,  I  would  follow  him  to  the  other  end  of  no- 
where. 

I  walked  back  to  the  hotel.     I  thought  I 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     163 

would  make  one  more  try  to  get  Andrew  on  the 
telephone.     My  whole  soul  quivered  when  at 
last  I  heard  the  receiver  click. 
"Hello?"  said  Andrew's  voice. 
"Oh,  Andrew,"  I  said,  "this  is  Helen." 
"Where  are  you?"  (His  voice  sounded  cross.) 
"Andrew,  is  there  any — any  message  from  Mr, 
Mifflin?     That  wreck  yesterday — he  might  have 
been  on  that  train — I've  been  so  frightened;  do 
you  think  he  was — hurt?  " 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Andrew.  "If  you 
want  to  know  about  Mifflin,  he's  in  jail  in  Port 
Vigor." 

And  then  I  think  Andrew  must  have  been  sur- 
prised. I  began  to  laugh  and  cry  simul- 
taneously, and  in  my  agitation  I  set  down  the 
receiver. 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

"m  Jf  Y  FIRST  impulse  was  to  hide  myself  in 
^  / 1  some  obscure  corner  where  I  could  vent 
JL  T  JL  my  feelings  without  fear  or  favour.  I 
composed  my  face  as  well  as  I  could  before  leav- 
ing the  'phone  booth;  then  I  sidled  across  the 
lobby  and  slipped  out  of  the  side  door.  I  found 
my  way  into  the  stable,  where  good  old  Peg  was 
munching  in  her  stall.  The  fine,  homely  smell 
of  horseflesh  and  long- worn  harness  leather  went 
right  to  my  heart,  and  while  Bock  frisked  at  my 
knees  I  laid  my  head  on  Peg's  neck  and  cried.  I 
think  that  fat  old  mare  understood  me.  She 
was  as  tubby  and  prosaic  and  middle-aged  as  I — 
but  she  loved  the  Professor. 

Suddenly  Andrew's  words  echoed  again  in  my 
mind.  I  had  barely  heeded  them  before,  in  the 
great  joy  of  my  relief,  but  now  their  significance 
came  to  ine.  "In  jail."  The  Professor  in  jail! 
That  was  the  meaning  of  his  strange  disappear- 

164 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS       165 

ance  at  Woodbridge.  That  little  brute  of  a  man 
Shirley  must  have  telephoned  from  Redfield, 
and  when  the  Professor  came  to  the  Woodbridge 
bank  to  cash  that  check  they  had  arrested  him. 
That  was  why  they  had  shoved  me  into  that 
mahogany  sitting-room.  Andrew  must  be  be- 
hind this.  The  besotted  old  fool!  My  face 
burned  with  anger  and  humiliation. 

I  never  knew  before  what  it  means  to  be  really 
infuriated.  I  could  feel  my  brain  tingle.  The 
Professor  in  jail!  The  gallant,  chivalrous  little 
man,  penned  up  with  hoboes  and  sneak  thieves, 
suspected  of  being  a  crook  .  .  .  as  if  I 
couldn't  take  care  of  myself!  What  did  they 
think  he  was,  anyway?  A  kidnapper? 

Instantly  I  decided  I  would  hurry  back  to 
Port  Vigor  without  delay.  If  Andrew  had  had 
the  Professor  locked  up,  it  could  only  be  on  the 
charge  of  defrauding  me.  Certainly  it  couldn't 
be  for  giving  him  a  bloody  nose  on  the  road  from 
Shelby.  And  if  I  appeared  to  deny  the  charge, 
surely  they  would  have  to  let  Mr.  Mifflin  go. 

I  believe  I  must  have  been  talking  to  myself  in 
Peg's  stall — at  any  rate,  just  at  this  moment  the 
stableman  appeared  and  looked  very  bewildered 


166     PARNASSUS    ON     WHEELS 

when  he  saw  me,  with  flushed  face  and  in  obvious 
excitement,  talking  to  the  horse.  I  asked  him 
when  was  the  next  train  to  Port  Vigor. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "they  say  that  all  the 
local  trains  is  held  up  till  the  wreck  at  Willdon's 
cleared  away.  This  being  Sunday,  I  don't  think 
you'll  get  anything  from  here  until  to-morrow 
morning." 

I  reflected.  It  wasn't  so  awfully  far  back  to 
Port  Vigor.  A  flivver  from  the  local  garage 
could  spin  me  back  there  in  a  couple  of  hours  at 
the  most.  But  somehow  it  seemed  more  fitting 
to  go  to  the  Professor's  rescue  in  his  own  Par- 
ftassus,  even  if  it  would  take  longer  to  get  there. 
To  tell  the  truth,  while  I  was  angry  and  humili- 
ated at  the  thought  of  his  being  put  in  jail  by 
Andrew,  I  couldn't  help,  deep  down  within  me, 
being  rather  thankful.  Suppose  he  had  been  in 
the  wreck?  The  Sage  of  Redfield  had  played 
the  part  of  Providence  after  all.  And  if  I  set 
out  right  away  with  Parnassus,  I  could  get 
to  Port  Vigor — well,  by  Monday  morning  any- 
way. 

The  good  people  of  the  Moose  Hotel  were 
genuinely  surprised  at  the  hurry  with  which  I 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     167 

dispatched  my  lunch.  But  I  gave  them  no  ex- 
planations. Goodness  knows,  my  head  was  full 
of  other  thoughts  and  the  apple  sauce  might 
have  been  asbestos.  You  know,  a  woman  only 
falls  in  love  once  in  her  life,  and  if  it  waits  until 
she's  darn  near  forty — well,  it  takes  !  You  see  I 
hadn't  even  been  vaccinated  against  it  by 
girlish  flirtations.  I  began  to  be  a  governess 
when  I  was  just  a  kid,  and  a  governess  doesn't 
get  many  chances  to  be  skittish.  So  now  when 
it  came,  it  hit  me  hard.  That's  when  a  woman 
finds  herself — when  she's  in  love.  I  don't  care 
if  she  is  old  or  fat  or  homely  or  prosy.  She  feels 
that  little  flutter  under  her  ribs  and  she  drops 
from  the  tree  like  a  ripe  plum.  I  didn't  care  il 
Roger  Mifflin  and  I  were  as  odd  a  couple  as  old 
Dr.  Johnson  and  his  wife,  I  only  knew  one  thing: 
that  when  I  saw  that  little  red  devil  again  I  was 
going  to  be  all  his — if  he'd  have  me.  That's 
why  the  old  Moose  Hotel  in  Bath  is  always 
sacred  to  me.  That's  where  I  learned  that  life 
still  held  something  fresh  for  me — something 
better  than  baking  champlain  biscuits  for 
Andrew. 


168     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

That  Sunday  was  one  of  those  mellow,  golden 
days  that  we  New  Englanders  get  in  October. 
The  year  really  begins  in  March,  as  every  farmer 
knows,  and  by  the  end  of  September  or  the  be- 
ginning of  October  the  season  has  come  to  its 
perfect,  ripened  climax.  There  are  a  few  days 
when  the  world  seems  to  hang  still  in  a  dreaming, 
sweet  hush,  at  the  very  fulness  of  the  fruit  before 
the  decline  sets  in.  I  have  no  words  (like 
Andrew)  to  describe  it,  but  every  autumn  for 
years  I  have  noticed  it.  I  remember  that  some- 
times at  the  farm  I  used  to  lean  over  the  wood, 
pile  for  a  moment  just  before  supper  to  watch 
those  purple  October  sunsets.  I  would  hear  the 
sharp  ting  of  Andrew's  little  typewriter  bell  as  he 
was  working  in  his  study.  And  then  I  would 
try  to  swallow  down  within  me  the  beauty  and 
wistfulness  of  it  all,  and  run  back  to  mash  the 
potatoes. 

Peg  drew  Parnassus  along  the  backward  road 
with  a  merry  little  rumble.  I  think  she  knew  we 
were  going  back  to  the  Professor.  Bock  ca- 
reered mightily  along  the  wayside.  And  I  had 
touch  time  for  thinking.  On  the  whole,  I  was 
glad;  for  I  had  much  to  ponder.  An  adventure 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     169 

that  had  started  as  a  mere  lark  or  whim  had  now 
become  for  me  the  very  gist  of  fife  itself.  I  was 
fanciful,  I  guess,  and  as  romantic  as  a  young  hen, 
but  by  the  bones  of  George  Eliot,  I'm  sorry  for 
the  woman  that  never  has  a  chance  to  be  fanci- 
ful. Mifflin  was  in  jail;  aye,  but  he  might  have 
been  dead  and — unrecognizable!  My  heart  re- 
fused to  be  altogether  sad.  I  was  on  my  way 
to  deliver  him  from  durance  vile.  There 
seemed  a  kinship  between  the  season  and  my- 
self, I  mused,  seeing  the  goldenrod  turning 
bronze  and  droopy  along  the  way.  Here  was  I, 
in  the  full  fruition  of  womanhood,  on  the  verge 
of  my  decline  into  autumn,  and  lo!  by  the  grace 
of  God,  I  had  found  my  man,  my  master.  He 
had  touched  me  with  his  own  fire  and  courage. 
I  didn't  care  what  happened  to  Andrew,  or  to 
Sabine  Farm,  or  to  anything  else  in  the  world. 
Here  were  my  hearth  and  my  home — Parnassus, 
or  wherever  Roger  should  pitch  his  tent.  I 
dreamed  of  crossing  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  with 
him  at  dusk,  watching  the  skyscrapers  etched 
against  a  burning  sky.  I  believed  in  calling 
things  by  their  true  names.  Ink  is  ink,  even  if 
the  bottle  is  marked  "commercial  fluid."  I 


170     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

didn't  try  to  blink  the  fact  that  I  was  in  love. 
In  fact,  I  gloried  in  it.  As  Parnassus  rolled 
along  the  road,  and  the  scarlet  maple  leaves 
eddied  gently  down  in  the  blue  October  air,  I 
made  up  a  kind  of  chant  which  I  called 

Hymn  for  a  Middle-Aged  Woman  (Fat) 
Who  Has  Fallen  into  Love 

0  God,  I  thank  Thee  who  sent  this  great  adven- 
ture my  way  I    I  am  grateful  to  have  come  out  of 
tfie  barren  land  of  spinsterhood,  seeing  the  glory 
of  a  love  greater  than  myself.     I  thank  Thee  for 
teaching  me  that  mixing,  and  kneading,  and  baking 
are  not  all  that  life  holds  for  me.     Even  if  he 
doesn't  love  me,  God,  I  shall  always  be  his. 

1  was  crooning  some  such  babble  as  this  to 
myself  when,  near  Woodbridge,  I  came  upon  a 
big,  shiny  motor  car  stranded  by  the  roadside, 
Several  people,  evidently  intelligent  and  well- 
to-do,  sat  under  a  tree  while  their  chauffeur 
fussed  with  a  tire.      I  was  so  absorbed  in  my 
own  thoughts  that  I  think  I  should  have  gone 
by  without  paying  them  much  heed,  but  sud- 
denly I  remembered  the  Professor's  creed — to 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS      171 

preach  the  gospel  of  books  in  and  out  of  season. 
Sunday  or  no  Sunday,  I  thought  I  could  best 
honour  Mifflin  by  acting  on  his  own  principle. 
I  pulled  up  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

I  noticed  the  people  turn  to  one  another  in  a 
kind  of  surprise,  and  whisper  something.  There 
was  an  elderly  man  with  a  lean,  hard-worked 
face;  a  stout  woman,  evidently  his  wife;  and  two 
young  girls  and  a  man  in  golfing  clothes. 
Somehow  the  face  of  the  older  man  seemed  fa- 
miliar. I  wondered  whether  he  were  some 
literary  friend  of  Andrew's  whose  photo  I  had 


Bock  stood  by  the  wheel  with  his  long,  curly 
tongue  running  in  and  out  over  his  teeth.  I 
hesitated  a  moment,  thinking  just  how  to  phrase 
my  attack,  when  the  elderly  gentleman  called 
out: 

"Where's  the  Professor?" 

I  was  beginning  to  realize  that  Mifflin  was 
indeed  a  public  character. 

"Heavens!"  I  said.  "Do  you  know  him, 
too?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  so,"  he  said.  "Didn't 
he  come  to  see  me  last  spring  about  an  appropria* 


172     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

tion  for  school  libraries,  and  wouldn't  leave  till 
I'd  promised  to  do  what  he  wanted !  He  stayed 
the  night  with  us  and  we  talked  literature  till 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Where  is  he  now? 
Have  you  taken  over  Parnassus?" 

"Just  at  present,"  I  said,  "Mr.  Mifflin  is  in 
the  jail  at  Port  Vigor." 

The  ladies  gave  little  cries  of  astonishment, 
and  the  gentleman  himself  (I  had  sized  him  up 
as  a  school  commissioner  or  something  of  that 
sort)  seemed  not  less  surprised. 

"In  jail!"  he  said.  "What  on  earth  for? 
Has  he  sandbagged  somebody  for  reading  Nick 
Carter  and  Bertha  M.  Clay?  That's  about  the 
only  crime  he'd  be  likely  to  commit." 

"He's  supposed  to  have  cozened  me  out  of 
four  hundred  dollars,"  I  said,  "and  my  brother 
has  had  him  locked  up.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact 
he  wouldn't  swindle  a  hen  out  of  a  new-laid 
egg.  I  bought  Parnassus  of  my  own  free  will. 
I'm  on  my  way  to  Port  Vigor  now  to  get  him 
out.  Then  I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  marry  me — 
if  he  will.  It's  not  leap  year,  either." 

He  looked  at  me,  his  thin,  lined  face  working 
with  friendliness.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man— 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     173 

short,  gray  hair  brushed  away  from  a  broad, 
brown  forehead.  I  noticed  his  rich,  dark  suit 
and  the  spotless  collar.  This  was  a  man  of 
breeding,  evidently. 

"Well,  Madam,"  he  said,  "any  friend  of  the 
Professor  is  a  friend  of  ours."  (His  wife  and  the 
girls  chimed  in  with  assent.)  "If  you  would 
like  a  lift  in  our  car  to  speed  you  on  your  errand, 
I'm  sure  Bob  here  would  be  glad  to  drive  Par- 
nassus into  Port  Vigor.  Our  tire  will  soon  be 
mended." 

The  young  man  assented  heartily,  but  as  I 
said  before,  I  was  bent  on  taking  Parnassus 
back  myself.  I  thought  the  sight  of  his  own 
tabernacle  would  be  the  best  balm  for  Mifflin's 
annoying  experience.  So  I  refused  the  offer, 
and  explained  the  situation  a  little  more  fully. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "then  let  me  help  in  any 
way  I  can."  He  took  a  card  from  his  pocket- 
book  and  scribbled  something  on  it.  "When 
you  get  to  Port  Vigor,"  he  said,  "show  this  at 
the  jail  and  I  don't  think  you'll  have  any  trouble. 
I  happen  to  know  the  people  there." 

So  after  a  hand-shake  all  round  I  went  OD 
again,  much  cheered  by  this  friendly  little  inci* 


174     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

dent.  It  wasn't  till  I  was  some  way  along  the 
road  that  I  thought  of  looking  at  the  card  he  had 
given  me.  Then  I  realized  why  the  man's  face 
had  been  familiar.  The  card  read  quite  simply: 

RALEIGH  STONE  STAFFORD 

The  Executive  Mansion, 

Darlington. 

It  was  the  Governor  of  the  State! 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

I  COULDN'T  help  chuckling,  as  Parnassus 
came  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  I  saw  the 
river  in  the  distance  once  more.  How  differ- 
ent all  this  was  from  my  girlhood  visions  of 
romance.  That  has  been  characteristic  of  my 
life  all  along — it  has  been  full  of  homely,  worka- 
day happenings,  and  often  rather  comic  in  spite 
of  my  best  resolves  to  be  highbrow  and  serious. 
All  the  same  I  was  something  near  to  tears  as  I 
thought  of  the  tragic  wreck  at  Willdon  and  the 
grief-laden  hearts  that  must  be  mourning.  I 
wondered  whether  the  Governor  was  now  re- 
turning from  Willdon  after  ordering  an  inquiry. 
On  his  card  he  had  written:  "Please  release 
R.  Mifflin  at  once  and  show  this  lady  all  cour- 
tesies." So  I  didn't  anticipate  any  particular 
trouble.  This  made  me  all  the  more  anxious 
to  push  on,  and  after  crossing  the  ferry  we 
halted  in  Woodbridge  only  long  enough  for 

175 


176     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

supper.  I  drove  past  the  bank  where  I  had 
waited  in  the  anteroom,  and  would  have  been 
glad  of  a  chance  to  horsewhip  that  sneaking 
little  cashier.  I  wondered  how  they  ha^d  trans- 
ported the  Professor  to  Port  Vigor,  and  thought 
ironically  that  it  was  only  that  Saturday  morn- 
ing when  he  had  suggested  taking  the  hoboes  to 
the  same  jail.  Still  I  do  not  doubt  that  his 
philosophic  spirit  had  made  the  best  of  it  all. 

Woodbridge  was  as  dead  as  any  country  town 
is  on  Sunday  night.  At  the  little  hotel  where  I 
had  supper  there  was  no  topic  of  conversation 
except  the  wreck.  But  the  proprietor,  when  I 
paid  my  bill,  happened  to  notice  Parnassus  in 
the  yard. 

"That's  the  bus  that  pedlar  sold  you,  ain't 
it?"  he  asked  with  a  leer. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  shortly. 

"Coin'  back  to  prosecute  him,  I  guess?"  he 
suggested.  "Say,  that  feller's  a  devil,  believe 
me.  When  the  sheriff  tried  to  put  the  cuffs  on 
him  he  gave  him  a  black  eye  and  pretty  near 
broke  his  jaw.  Some  scrapper  fer  a  midget!" 

My  own  brave  little  fighter,  I  thought,  and 
flushed  with  pride. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     177 

The  road  back  to  Port  Vigor  seemed  endless. 
I  was  a  little  nervous,  remembering  the  tramps 
in  Pratt's  quarry,  but  with  Bock  sitting  beside 
me  on  the  seat  I  thought  it  craven  to  be  alarmed. 
We  rumbled  gently  through  the  darkness,  be- 
tween aisles  of  inky  pines  where  the  strip  of 
starlight  ran  like  a  ribbon  overhead,  then  on 
the  rolling  dunes  that  overlook  the  water.  There 
was  a  moon,  too,  but  I  was  mortally  tired  and 
lonely  and  longed  only  to  see  my  Little  Red- 
beard.  Peg  was  weary,  too,  and  plodded  slowly. 
It  must  have  been  midnight  before  we  saw  the 
red  and  green  lights  of  the  railway  signals  and 
I  knew  that  Port  Vigor  was  at  hand. 

I  decided  to  camp  where  I  was.  I  guided  Peg 
into  a  field  beside  the  road,  hitched  her  to  a 
fence,  and  took  the  dog  into  the  van  with  me. 
I  was  too  tired  to  undress.  I  fell  into  the  bunk 
and  drew  the  blankets  over  me.  As  I  did  so, 
something  dropped  down  behind  the  bunk  with 
a  sharp  rap.  It  was  a  forgotten  corncob  pipe 
of  the  Professor's,  blackened  and  sooty.  I  put 
it  under  my  pillow,  and  fell  asleep. 

Monday,  October  seventh.  If  this  were  a 
novel  about  some  charming,  slender,  pansy-eyed 


178     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

girl,  how  differently  I  would  have  to  describe 
the  feelings  with  which  I  woke  the  next  morn- 
ing. But  these  being  only  a  few  pages  from  the 
life  of  a  fat,  New  England  housewife,  I  must  be 
candid.  I  woke  feeling  dull  and  sour.  The  day 
was  gray  and  cool:  faint  shreds  of  mist  sifting  up 
from  the  Sound  and  a  desolate  mewing  of  sea- 
gulls in  the  air.  I  was  unhappy,  upset,  and — 
yes — shy.  Passionately  I  yearned  to  run  to 
the  Professor,  to  gather  him  into  my  arms,  to  be 
alone  with  Aim  ia  Parnassus,  creaking  up  some 
sunny  by-road.  But  his  words  came  back  to 
me:  I  was  nothing  to  him.  What  if  he  didn't 
love  me  after  all? 

I  walked  across  two  fields,  down  to  the  beach 
where  little  waves  were  slapping  against  the 
shingle.  I  washed  my  face  and  hands  in  salt 
water.  Then  I  went  back  to  Parnassus  and 
brewed  some  coffee  with  condensed  milk.  I 
gave  Peg  and  Bock  their  breakfasts.  Then  I 
hitched  Peg  to  the  van  again,  and  felt  better. 
As  I  drove  into  the  town  I  had  to  wait  at  the 
grade  crossing  while  a  wrecking  train  rumbled 
past,  on  its  way  back  from  Willdon.  That 
mea^t  that  the  line  was  clear  again.  I  watched 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     179 

the  grimy  men  on  the  cars,  and  shuddered  to 
think  what  they  had  been  doing. 

The  Vigor  county  jail  lies  about  a  mile  out 
of  the  town,  an  ugly,  gray  stone  barracks  with  a 
high,  spiked  wall  about  it.  I  was  thankful  that 
it  was  still  fairly  early  in  the  morning,  and  I 
drove  through  the  streets  without  seeing  any 
one  I  knew.  Finally  I  reached  the  gate  in  the 
prison  wall.  Here  some  kind  of  a  keeper  barred 
my  way.  " Can't  get  in,  lady,"  he  said.  "Yes- 
terday was  visitors'  day.  No  more  visitors  till 
next  month." 

"I  must  get  in,"  I  said.  "You've  got  a  man 
in  there  on  a  false  charge." 

"So  they  all  say,"  he  retorted,  calmly,  and 
spat  halfway  across  the  road.  "You  wouldn't 
believe  any  of  our  boarders  had  a  right  to  be 
here  if  you  could  hear  their  friends  talk." 

I  showed  him  Governor  Stafford's  card.  He 
was  rather  impressed  by  this,  and  retired  into 
a  sentry-box  in  the  wall — to  telephone,  I  sup- 
pose. 

Presently  he  came  back. 

"The  sheriff  says  he'll  see  you,  ma'am.  But 
you'll  have  to  leave  this  here  dynamite  caboose 


180     PAENASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

behind."  He  unlocked  a  little  door  in  the  im- 
mense iron  gate,  and  turned  me  over  to  another 
man  inside.  "Take  this  here  lady  to  the  sher- 
iff," he  said. 

Some  of  Vigor  county's  prisoners  must 
have  learned  to  be  pretty  good  gardeners,  for 
certainly  the  grounds  were  in  good  condition. 
The  grass  was  green  and  trimly  mowed;  there 
were  conventional  beds  of  flowers  in  very 
ugly  shapes;  in  the  distance  I  saw  a  gang  of  men 
in  striped  overalls  mending  a  roadway.  The 
guide  led  me  to  an  attractive  cottage  to  one  side 
of  the  main  building.  There  were  two  children 
playing  outside,  and  I  remember  thinking  that 
within  the  walls  of  a  jail  was  surely  a  queer 
place  to  bring  up  youngsters. 

But  I  had  other  things  to  think  about.  I 
looked  up  at  that  grim,  gray  building.  Behind 
one  of  those  little  barred  windows  was  the  Pro- 
fessor. I  should  have  been  angry  at  Andrew, 
but  somehow  it  all  seemed  a  kind  of  dream. 
Then  I  was  taken  into  the  hallway  of  the  sher- 
iff's cottage  and  in  a  minute  I  was  talking  to  a 
big,  bull-necked  man  with  a  political  mous' 
tache. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     181 

"You  have  a  prisoner  here  called  Roger 
Miffiin?"Isaid. 

"My  dear  Madam,  I  don't  keep  a  list  of  all 
our  inmates  in  my  head.  If  you  will  come  to 
the  office  we  will  look  up  the  records." 

I  showed  him  the  Governor's  card.  He  took 
it  and  kept  looking  at  it  as  though  he  expected 
to  see  the  message  written  there  change  or  fade 
away.  We  walked  across  a  strip  of  lawn  to  the 
prison  building.  There,  in  a  big  bare  office,  he 
ran  over  a  card  index. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said.  "Roger  Mifflin; 
age,  41;  face,  oval;  complexion,  florid;  hair, 
red  but  not  much  of  it;  height,  64  inches; 
weight,  stripped,  120;  birthmark.  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "That's  the  man. 
What's  he  here  for?" 

"He's  held  in  default  of  bail,  pending  trial. 
The  charge  is  attempt  to  defraud  one  Helen 
McGill,  spinster,  age.  .  .  ." 

"Rubbish!"  I  said.  "I'm  Helen  McGill, 
and  the  man  made  no  attempt  to  defraud  me." 

"The  charge  was  entered  and  warrant  applied 
for  by  your  brother,  Andrew  McGill,  acting  on 
your  behalf." 


182     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"I  never  authorized  Andrew  to  act  on  my 
behalf." 

"Then  do  you  withdraw  the  charge?" 

"  By  all  means,"  I  said.  "I've  a  great  mind  to 
enter  a  counter-charge  against  Andrew  and 
have  him  arrested." 

"This  is  all  very  irregular,"  said  the  sheriff 
"but  if  the  prisoner  is  known  to  the  Governor, 
I  suppose  there  is  no  alternative.  I  cannot 
annul  the  warrant  without  some  recognizance. 
According  to  the  laws  of  this  State  the  next  of 
kin  must  stand  surety  for  the  prisoner's  good 
behaviour  after  release.  There  is  no  next  of 
kin.  .  .  ." 

"Surely  there  is!"  I  said.  "I  am  the 
prisoner's  next  of  kin." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "In  what 
relationship  do  you  stand  to  this  Roger  Mifflin?" 

"I  intend  to  marry  him  just  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  him  away  from  here." 

He  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  "I  guess 
there's  no  stopping  you,"  he  said.  He  pinned 
the  Governor's  card  to  a  blue  paper  on  the 
desk,  and  began  filling  in  some  blanks. 

"Well,  Miss  McGill,"  he  went  on,  "don't 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     183 

take  away  more  than  one  of  my  prisoners  or 
I'll  lose  my  job.  The  turnkey  will  take  you 
up  to  the  cell.  I'm  exceedingly  sorry:  you 
can  see  that  the  mistake  was  none  of  our  fault. 
Tell  the  Governor  that,  will  you,  when  you  see 
him?" 

I  followed  the  attendant  up  two  flights  of 
bare,  stone  stairs,  and  down  a  long,  white- 
washed corridor.  It  was  a  gruesome  place: 
rows  and  rows  of  heavy  doors  with  little,  barred 
windows.  I  noticed  that  each  door  had  a 
combination  knob,  like  a  safe.  My  knees  felt 
awfully  shaky. 

But  it  wasn't  really  so  heart-throbby  as  I 
had  expected.  The  jailer  stopped  at  the  end 
of  a  long  passageway.  He  spun  the  clicking 
dial,  while  I  waited  in  a  kind  of  horror.  I  think 
I  expected  to  see  the  Professor  with  shaved 
head  (they  couldn't  shave  much  off  his  head, 
poor  lamb !)  and  striped  canvas  suit,  and  a  ball 
and  chain  on  his  ankle. 

The  door  swung  open  heavily.  There  was  a 
narrow,  clean  little  room  with  a  low  camp  bed, 
and  under  the  barred  window  a  table  strewn 
with  sheets  of  paper.  It  was  the  Professor 


184     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

in  his  own  clothes,  writing  busily,  with  his 
back  toward  me.  Perhaps  he  thought  it  was 
only  an  attendant  with  food,  or  perhaps  he 
didn't  even  hear  the  interruption.  I  could 
hear  his  pen  running  busily.  I  might  have 
known  you  never  would  get  any  heroics  out  of 
that  man!  Trust  him  to  make  the  best  of  it! 

"Lemon  sole  and  a  glass  of  sherry,  please, 
James,"  said  the  Professor  over  his  shoulder, 
and  the  warder,  who  evidently  had  joked  with 
him  before,  broke  into  a  cackle  of  laughter. 

"A  lady  to  see  yer  Lordship,"  he  said. 

The  Professor  turned  round.  His  face  went 
quite  white.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experi- 
ence of  him  he  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss  for  speech. 

"Miss — Miss  McGill,"  he  stammered.  "You 
are  the  good  Samaritan.  I'm  doing  the  John 
Bunyan  act,  see?  Writing  in  prison.  I've 
really  started  my  book  at  last.  And  I  find  the 
fellows  here  know  nothing  whatever  about 
literature.  There  isn't  even  a  library  in  the 
place." 

For  the  life  of  me,  I  couldn't  utter  the  tender- 
ness in  my  heart  with  that  gorilla  of  a  jailer 
standing  behind  us. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     185 

Somehow  we  made  our  way  downstairs, 
after  the  Professor  had  gathered  together  the 
sheets  of  his  manuscript.  It  had  already 
reached  formidable  proportions,  as  he  had 
written  fifty  pages  in  the  thirty-six  hours 
he  had  been  in  prison.  In  the  office  we  had 
to  sign  some  papers.  The  sheriff  was  very 
apologetic  to  Mifflin,  and  offered  to  take  him 
back  to  town  in  his  car,  but  I  explained  that 
Parnassus  was  waiting  at  the  gate.  The 
Professor's  eyes  brightened  when  he  heard  that, 
but  I  had  to  hurry  him  away  from  an  argu- 
ment about  putting  good  books  in  prisons. 
The  sheriff  walked  with  us  to  the  gate  and  there 
shook  hands  again. 

Peg  whickered  as  we  came  up  to  her,  and  the 
Professor  patted  her  soft  nose.  Bock  tugged 
at  his  chain  in  a  frenzy  of  joy.  At  last  we  were 
alone. 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

I   NEVER  knew  just  how  it  happened.    In- 
stead of  driving  back  through  Port  Vigor, 
we  turned  into  a  side  road  leading  up  over 
the  hill  and  across  the  heath  where  the  air 
came  fresh  and  sweet  from  the  sea.     The  Pro- 
fessor   sat    very    silent,    looking    about    him. 
There  was  a  grove  of  birches  on  the  hill,  and 
the  sunlight  played  upon  their  satin  boles. 

"It  feels  good  to  be  out  again,"  he  said 
calmly.  "The  Sage  cannot  be  so  keen  a  lover 
.of  ooen  air  as  his  books  would  indicate,  o*  he 
wouldn't  be  so  ready  to  clap  a  man  into  quod. 
Perhaps  I  owe  him  another  punch  on  the  nose 
for  that." 

"Oh,  Roger,"  I  said — and  I'm  afraid  my  voice 
was  trembly — "I'm  sorry.  I'm  sorry.'9 

Not  very  eloquent,  was  it?  And  then,  some- 
how or  other,  his  arm  was  around  me. 

"Helen,"  he  said.     "Will  you  marry  me? 

186 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     187 

I'm  not  rich,  but  I've  saved  up  enough  to  live 
on.  We'll  always  have  Parnassus,  and  this 
winter  we'll  go  and  live  in  Brooklyn  and  write 
the  book.  And  we'll  travel  around  with  Peg, 
and  preach  the  love  of  books  and  the  love  of 
human  beings.  Helen — you're  just  what  I 
need,  God  bless  you.  Will  you  come  with 
me  and  make  me  the  happiest  bookseller  in  the 
world?" 

Peg  must  have  been  astonished  at  the  length 
of  time  she  had  for  cropping  the  grass,  undis- 
turbed. I  know  that  Roger  and  I  sat  careless 
of  time.  And  when  he  told  me  that  ever  since 
our  first  afternoon  together  he  had  determined 
to  have  me,  sooner  or  later,  I  was  the  proudest 
woman  in  New  England.  I  told  Roger  about 
the  ghastly  wreck,  and  my  agony  of  apprehen- 
sion. I  think  it  was  the  wreck  that  made  us 
both  feel  inclined  to  forgive  Andrew. 

We  had  a  light  luncheon  together  there  on 
the  dunes  above  the  Sound.  By  taking  a  short 
cut  over  the  ridge  we  struck  into  the  Shelby 
road  without  going  down  into  Port  Vigor  again. 
Peg  pulled  us  along  toward  Greenbriar,  and  we 
talked  as  we  went. 


188     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

Perhaps  the  best  of  it  was  that  a  cold  drizzle 
of  rain  began  to  fall  as  we  moved  along  the  hill 
road.  The  Professor — as  I  still  call  him,  by 
force  of  habit — curtained  in  the  front  of  the 
van  with  a  rubber  sheet.  Bock  hopped  up 
and  curled  himself  against  his  master's  leg. 
Roger  got  out  his  corncob  pipe,  and  I  sat  close 
to  him.  In  the  gathering  gloom  we  plodded 
along,  as  happy  a  trio — or-  quartet,  if  you  in- 
clude fat,  cheery  old  Peg — as  any  on  this  planet. 
Summer  wai  over,  and  we  were  no  longer 
youngj  but  there  were  great  things  before  us. 
I  listened  to  the  drip  of  the  rain,  and  the  steady 
creak  of  Parnassus  on  her  axles.  I  thought  of 
my  " anthology"  of  loaves  of  bread  and  vowed 
to  bake  a  million  more  if  Roger  wanted  me  to. 

It  was  after  supper  time  when  we  got  to 
Greenbriar.  Roger  had  suggested  that  we  take 
a  shorter  road  that  would  have  brought  us 
through  to  Redfield  sooner,  but  I  begged  him 
to  go  by  way  of  Shelby  and  Greenbriar,  just  as 
we  had  come  before.  I  did  not  tell  him  why  I 
wanted  this.  And  when  finally  we  came  to  a 
halt  in  front  of  Kirby's  store  at  the  crossroads  it 
was  raining  heavily  and  we  were  ready  for  a  rest. 


PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS     189 

"Well,  sweetheart,"  said  Roger,  "shall  we  go 
and  see  what  sort  of  rooms  the  hotel  has?" 

"I  can  think  of  something  better  than  that," 
said  I.  "Let's  go  up  to  Mr.  Kane  and  have  him 
marry  us.  Then  we  can  get  back  to  Sabine 
Farm  afterward,  and  give  Andrew  a  sur- 
prise." 

"By  the  bones  of  Hymen!"  said  Roger. 
"You're  right!" 

It  must  have  been  ten  o'clock  when  we  turned 
in  at  the  red  gate  of  Sabine  Farm  The  rain 
had  stopped,  but  the  wheels  sloshed  through 
mud  and  water  at  every  turn.  The  light  was 
burning  in  the  sitting-room,  and  through  the 
window  I  could  see  Andrew  bent  over  his  work 
table.  We  climbed  out,  stiff  and  sore  from  the 
long  ride.  I  saw  Roger's  face  set  in  a  comical 
blend  of  sternness  and  humour. 

"Well,  here  goes  to  surprise  the  Sage!"  he 
whispered. 

We  picked  our  way  between  puddles  and 
rapped  on  the  door.  Andrew  appeared,  carry- 
ing the  lamp  in  one  hand.  When  he  saw  us  he 
grunted. 


190     PARNASSUS    ON    WHEELS 

"Let  me  introduce  iny  wife,"  said  Roger. 
"Well,  I'll  be  damned,"  said  Andrew. 

But  Andrew  isn't  quite  so  black  as  I've 
painted  him.  When  he's  once  convinced  of 
the  error  of  his  ways,  he  is  almost  pathetically 
eager  to  make  up.  I  remember  only  one  re- 
mark in  the  subsequent  conversation,  because 
I  was  so  appalled  by  the  state  of  everything  at 
Sabine  Farm  that  I  immediately  set  about 
putting  the  house  to  rights.  The  two  men, 
however,  as  soon  as  Parnassus  was  housed  in 
the  barn  and  the  animals  under  cover,  sat  down 
by  the  stove  to  talk  things  over. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Andrew — "do  what- 
ever you  like  with  your  wife;  she's  too  much 
for  me.  But  I'd  like  to  buy  that  Parnassus." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  the  Professor. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


DEC    41974 
NOV20RECB 


77  -S 


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3  2106  00213     131 


